Protégé
by with teeth
Summary: When he goes back, he doesn't expect things to get as sticky as they do. Way to break it, hero.  Written for the KMeme.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N**: Wrote this for the kmeme. I sort of ended up taking it too far. Way, way too far. Anyway, this is what my time has been spent doing. I take a lot of liberties with canon, too - I am aware that Dave can only time travel with the time tables (like Aradia with her time boxes), but for the purposes of this he can do whatever the hell he wants. For the most part.  
>Warning for Stridercest and explicit relations.<br>I own nothing.

**Protégé **

This isn't the first time you've gone back so far – the time travel thing is so habitual now, even seven years after you beat the game, that you're not quite sure you could just keep yourself grounded _linear_– but it's the first time you've ever seen Bro.

And it fucking _floors_ you, just drops the bottom right out of your guts, because this awkward-angry maybe-sixteen-year-old is not a thing like Bro. You creep closer, quiet and nonchalant and the epitome of normal, so that you can get a better look without somebody calling the cops on the twenty-year-old haunting the alley just near the bus stop. Your brother (and it's so weird to think of this punk as that, but you're _sure_) rounds the corner and you're not sure what you're more embarrassed of: the fact that he's wearing his hat backwards like a garden variety douchebag or the fact that he's not wearing any shades at all, just walking around existing in space with this dunkass scowl that narrows his eyes and has him baring his teeth when he talks.

It's wrong and makes the back of your hands itch, makes you want to beat the ever-loving snot out of his face because how are you supposed to grow up so surreally cool if _this_ guy can't even get his shit together? He's got maybe two years before the state relinquishes wardship and he's kicked out of foster care, only to find tiny little useless you in a crater a few months later. You _won't_. It takes years to learn to be as pretentiously awesome as both you and Alpha-Bro are. There's no way this kid has time for that on his own and you'll end up obvious and open and too loud to be cool, too clumsy to save the universe.

All because of this kid, smug-faced with a straight nose.

You can't stand it, can't keep looking at this younger version of Bro who is decidedly not Bro. You leave before the angry heat boiling on your skin makes you sweat, time warping around you and snapping back into place just seconds after you originally left. There's a smuppet splayed wantonly on the floor by your bed and you drive your heel into it until the squeaker inside of it breaks with a gratifying crack.

Hot feelings in your throat tell you there is no way you can just not fix this. You _can_ fix this, you can teach this sadsack iteration of your brother to be cool. Which in turn would make you responsible for your own insufferable coolness and so the most chill of them all – you can't teach The Man to be The Man without being Slightly Better Than The Man and just, fuck, this is the best plan. Absolutely. No flaws.

If you still partook in that sort of thing you'd be visibly giddy, flexing your fingers while you grinned like a jackass, but you (thankfully) don't. You're not John.

Your computer screen is blinking Pesterchum notifications at you and you slouch into the computer chair.

-– tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] -–

TT: Dave, I have a task I require your assistance with.  
>TG: not now rose<br>TG: im busy  
>TT: Oh?<br>TG: yeah  
>TG: saving the world from the saddest fucking tragedy that is occurring<br>TG: has occurred  
>TG: shits complicated but its beyond heartwrenching<br>TG: like i can feel my fucking heart weeping rose  
>TG: thats how sad this is my heart is shedding tears like a knocked up prom date in the alley behind the gym<br>TT: And what, exactly, is the nature of this emergency?  
>TG: the world is going to develop without two really awesome dudes in it if i dont fix my bro<br>TG: and the world cant handle much more derp lalonde  
>TG: itll have to delete egbert to make sufficient room<br>TT: How far back did you go?  
>TT: It's possible you caught him mid-transition.<br>TG: you dont get it  
>TG: theres no transition into cool for a strider<br>TG: were born with it in our fucking blood like some kind of shitty instruction manual that don't need reviewing because you just live that shit  
>TG: instinct or something<br>TT: Are you sure?  
>TT: It seems to me you're over-reacting to a very minor thing.<br>TT: It could be that you were viewing an alternate timeline, as well, one in which neither you or your brother were destined to become as bodaciously rad as you presently are.  
>TG: okay first off<br>TG: thats not even a thing a you said  
>TG: like it literally cannot be a reality in any space or time continuum so were just going to ignore it as a possibility or a real statement that you made<br>TG: because if were going to recognize it as a thing im going to have to like  
>TG: stop acknowledging you as a real person because your thoughts are just so obviously wrong<br>TG: and second thanks  
>TT: You're welcome.<br>TT: I will concede that it does seem unlikely you or Bro would ever be anything other than cool – I might even go far as to suggest that it simply isn't possible, given the niche you fill in our little group.  
>TT: But I think it would be wise to seriously consider it before you decide to "fix" your brother.<br>TG: yeah thats not going to happen  
>TG: shits about to get fucking sick rose<br>TG: id say you best be prepared for some of the sickest fires youve ever seen but youre not really involved  
>TG: so no preparation is required on your part<br>TG: also obviously i cant help you with whatever you needed  
>TG: gotta save the world from derp<p>

-– turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] -–

You kick against the wall and the chair rolls out. You've got a plan. It's a good plan and it goes into action _now_.

Bro is mercifully not home, probably out trouncing some chump in a rap battle or turning out some wicked tunes at a club somewhere, so there's no immediate danger to your bodily well-being as you enter Bro's room. You kick aside the blue smuppet by the door and yank open the desk drawers until you find what you need, stashed beneath printed spreadsheets of Plush Rump subscriptions (and _wow_is Bro organized with this trash). The shades you've stolen you fold very carefully and slip into your pocket, the expired drivers license you turn over and look over carefully – you've got to get all the details right if you're going to do this.

It occurs to you that Broderick is quite possibly just the _worst _name and you bet that jerkass you observed a half-hour ago still goes by it.

Jesus christ, that tiny version of your wicked sick Bro is going to be so fucking grateful when you show him the sublime low-light of irony. You pop your knuckles, smooth your fringe to the side. Time slides over your skin like honey and bends, spits you out back in the alley you were in earlier. It's dark but the lingering Texas heat pricks the skin on your, so you figure the time at about eight o'clock.

You walk out of the alley, your shoulders at a low angle and your hands stuffed into your pockets to keep the stolen shades from breaking against your thigh. Your step is slow and bored, a swinging kind of saunter that you've spent years working on to really look like you're full of don't give a fuck, but you're keenly aware of how empty the street is as you follow the nagging feeling in your gut onto a side street.

The houses on both sides of the road look nearly identical, perfect little surbuban white and blue with minivans in the driveway. Your mouth tastes a little like cold molasses and cream from how fucking quaint it all is. Still, you've got business to take care of, and as you rap your knuckles against the powder blue door you know belongs to your Bro's foster family (you're not sure how you know, but you do, you're completely confident in that) you put on your best helpful smile and straighten your posture.

The woman who answers the door is friendly looking enough, and she smiles as she askes what you need. The house smells like Italian spices and you can hear the baseball game on the television. Perfect fucking suburbia.

"I was wondering if Broderick Strider was home?" you ask, voice level and polite.

She peers carefully at you and you're thankful your shades can't betray your relation, "And who are you, if you don't mind me asking?"

You let your face fall, your mouth curling into the slightest of frowns, "He didn't tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

"I'm the tutor his biology teacher recommended. We're supposed to meet twice a week to get his grades up," you lie easily, knowing full well just how believable it is. Bro didn't exactly look like the studying type.

"Oh, dear, he _didn't_ tell us," she sighs, opens the door wide and ushers you in, "He'll be upstairs in his room. It's the last door on the left."

It's a little too easy, but you take it. The house is clean, you notice, impeccably so, and there's black and white photographs decorating the wall leading up the stairs. These people are disgustingly nuclear and it makes your skin crawl. You stop just outside the door to Bro's room, rocking a moment on the balls of your feet. Through the door you can hear the quiet thump of music inside and beneath that swearing. There's no use being polite – he'll blow your cover for sure if you bother to knock – so you let yourself in, closing the door behind you.

You startle him and he jumps off his bed with a growl that's really more like a yelp, his mouth drawn into an unbecoming snarl and his hands balled into fists at his hips. He's about to start yelling, you can tell by the way his throat jumps, and raise your hands in surrender.

"Chill out little dude," you say, sweeping past him and leaning against the window.

"Who the hell are you?" he spits, glaring hard. Trying to unnerve you, you're sure, but it's not going to work when you're bigger than him.

You fish the shades out of your pocket, unfolding them carefully and holding them out as a peace offering. "Put these on," you say, "There's a lot we gotta get done."

He snatches them out of your hand and inspects them carefully. "These are stupid," he concludes, tossing them onto his desk.

"No, they're ironic. Put them on."

"Get out, or I'm telling Renee to call the cops."

You smirk, raise your eyebrows just so, "She's not going to do that."

"Yeah?"

"She thinks I'm your science tutor."

His nose wrinkles and he looks incredulous. "No, she doesn't. I'm not failing any of my classes," he says defiantly, but his voice shakes a bit and you can tell he's lying. It strikes you that there's a lot more you'll need to address than you previously thought, but it doesn't deter you.

"Don't lie, Bro, if you're not gonna do it right," you say, peering down at him over the top of your shades.

"Fuck _off_," he growls, his shoulders tightening.

You turn around and unlatch the window, sliding it open. Hooking one leg over the ledge, your hands braced on the frame, you give Bro one last look over your shoulder – he's still glaring, his mouth a thin angry line as he tries to steady his breathing. "You can come, too," you say calmly, moving out the window proper.

Your legs are long enough to reach the sturdier branches of the pecan tree growing in the yard and you shimmy over, climbing down easily to a reasonable height to drop from. There's no point in waiting for Bro to decide whether or not to follow you, so you dust yourself off and walk onto the street, hands back in your pockets. You don't walk very fast because you already know how this ends.

"Okay, okay!" he hisses as he catches up to you, "Where are we going?"

He looks flustered, maybe because you goaded him into doing what you wanted him to, and even though it's dark you can make out the pale flush climbing up his neck. You give a noncommittal shrug and it's the best fucking feeling in the world to have your Bro finally listening to you without a fist-and-sword based argument first - even if it is this lame-ass version. Whatever. You're in the process of fixing that.


	2. Chapter 2

You take him to the park you know is a couple blocks away (again, you're not entirely sure how you know, but you do), because it's too late for anyone to still be there. A car is parked in the lot, but from the fog on the windows you don't think whoever owns it will be bothering you tonight. It unnerves little-Bro, though, and he staggers his step to keep pretty close to you – if you just jerked your elbow back, you'd catch his jaw. It's tempting.

The gate is locked closed but low enough to vault over. Bro hesitates, worries his lip in the lamplight.

"Where are you _going_?" he asks, and to his credit his voice doesn't shake despite his obvious anxiety. He stares openly at you in the dark, seeking any kind of confirmation in the worth of being lured out of his room by a man he's never seen before, to an abandoned park where the only other people are too busy fucking to give a shit about some kid. You don't give him anything. Teach him blasé confidence first because of the sheer worth of it, especially in the face of uncertainty, especially when you know you're going to lose because you're too small to really fight back (and you remember how, once, the force of your brother's knee to your gut had made you puke and how after he'd helped you down the stairs and gotten you a milkshake for the effort).

You hear him clambering over the gate as you climb up onto the top bar of the swing set, balancing precariously with your legs cocked awkward. He glares up at you, aggravated but scared, and spits into the sand.

"This is fucking stupid," he says flatly. It's better than before, but his face is still raw with feeling.

"Stop that," you tell him, pushing your sunglasses back up to the bridge of your nose.

"What?" Irritated. Right out there where you can read it plain as bad graffiti.

"That. You're clear as a fucking crystal wineglass. Lie, talk obviously. Shit, man, I can tell what you're thinking just by looking at your face. I'd say it was sad if wasn't just so heart-breakingly pathetic." There's a lot of implied vitriol in your voice, but you keep it hard and guarded to piss him off. If he can't read you, can't tell if you're serious, he'll work himself up over it. Burn it all out.

It works. Too well, maybe, because he makes a frustrated noise high in his throat and digs his nails into your jeans and hauls you hard to the ground by the leg. The fall doesn't hurt – it's not high enough to – and you let him land the first hit to your jaw, which does. He barks a laugh and it's good to know he's still pretty fast despite being such a disappointment. You wait for the worst of the ache to stop pulsing on your jaw before you do anything and you wear the rising bruise like a badge of honor.

"Not enough, Bro," you dig your heels into the loose sand in preparation for what's next, "Just not good enough."

If he were slightly older or the Bro you were used to, you'd be flat on your back with a black eye and split lip or on your knees with the plane of a dulled sword pressed against your neck. But he's not and it's easy for you to catch his wrist when he tries to hit you again and you smash your fist hard against his nose before he can correct himself. The pop_crack _of cartilage is loud in the dark and feels fucking beautiful beneath your knuckles. You take a certain pride in knowing it'll heal slightly wrong, a bit crooked and hooked where it broke. Like it should be, like you remember.

The Bro in front of you, though, is holding his hands to his nose and hissing in sharp wet-sounding breaths. He just stumbles back from you, hunches his shoulders in to protect his face, and you can hear him swear in steady streams. When he pulls his hands away they're shiny and slick looking in the low-light and he just stares at you with blood running over his mouth and chin. He doesn't look angry or upset and you're strangely pleased that _this _of all things draws up his poker face.

"Like that," you encourage, "Just like that."

When he winds his fingers into your collar and splits your lip over your teeth you don't make a sound, because it's not like you don't deserve it.

"_Fuck_," he growls, wiping blood from his lips with his sleeve, "You broke my nose."

"It looks better this way," your mouth tastes overwhelmingly metallic and you swallow the sensation, lick it off your teeth. "When it heals it'll look good."

Bro drops to a crouch and his fingers shake as he gingerly touches the spot where his nose is cracked. "You're so full of shit," he says, quiet and even. He stands again, wipes his hands on his jeans, and looks at you like you're some kind of wild animal. "You do this a lot? Drag kids out to the park and bust their face?"

You shrug; hook your thumbs into your pockets. "You're kind of a special case."

"Mother_fucker_," he doesn't say it to you, just repeats it over and over like a prayer as he turns away and vaults back over the gate.

When he's out of sight you pull in the ticks around you and breathe the air of your and Bro's apartment. You didn't time it so precisely this time and you know Bro's home even before you crack open your bedroom door and slink through the not-quite-a-hallway to the bathroom.

He doesn't directly acknowledge you even though you know he knows you're out, jut slouches deeper into the futon and pops the tab on a beer. Your hand is on the bathroom door when he finally says, "You look like shit."

The hair on the back of your neck raises despite being prepared for it and your breath comes in fast and you wonder if he _knows_ somehow, remembers what you did and what he did to you. But you've spent years getting used to Bro, you know how to evade unnecessary verbal confrontations (and to lesser success the physical ones). "Didn't lose," you sneer, closing the bathroom door with a slam.

You lean close to the mirror and tilt your head to get a better look at the damages. Your lip is swollen and the gash on it is raw and red and you think hope you won't need stitches (do they stitch lips? who the hell knows), blood is caked in a thin spatter on your chin and you rinse it off with water so cold your skin stings. The bruise is already congealing a nasty blue-red beneath the skin of your jaw, but otherwise you're golden.

Bro's got his beer balanced carefully on his knee while he clicks through fifty different variations of shitty legal and buddy-cop dramas on the television. The screen's reflected on his shades but you know he's looking at you from years of _needing_ to know that. You don't let it bother you, just tuck a hand into your pocket and lean back against the wall, waiting.

Staring him down, you realize that you hadn't lied when you said his nose would heal to look better. You've always sort of known that Bro is undeniably attractive by any standards (and that's not a weird thing to deliberately think now, not when it's _true_ and you don't want to be a liar), but the crook compliments the angle of his jaw and the quirk of his mouth when he smirks. You'd call it charming, but that would require you to name it and you can't do that.

"Dave," he says at length, "I'm missing a spare. You know anything about it?"

It isn't a question, not really, but you're not thirteen anymore so you kick off the wall with a decisive "nope" and you feel his eyes follow you into your room. You're not sure how much he knows if little-Bro is his precursor, but it's more than you if he _is_.

With your shoulders pressed flush against your door, you find the time to steady your hands from the subtle tremor you hadn't noticed they had. You slouch away from the door when you hear the knob turn and Bro seems to feel up the entire frame as he leans against it.

"You're going to the doctor. Get that stitched," he points vaguely at the tear in your lower lip, "Leaving in ten."

He doesn't close the door, just leaves it open as he disappears into his room, maybe looking for his wallet or keys. It's a polite thing to do, you think, a gesture of his affection for you that you usually forget exists.

* * *

><p>In the waiting room your iPhone vibrates against your thigh and you open the Pesterchum app that blinks on the screen, not really in the mood for the inevitable guilt trip that usually results from ignoring John. To your relief, Bro is not paying any attention to what you're doing, his head tilted back against the wall and his hands tapping a rhythm out against the armrest.<p>

- ectoBiologist [EB] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] –-

EB: dave!  
>EB: hellooo dave<br>EB: you're breaking my heart dave  
>TG: yeah i get that a lot<br>TG: just put it on the damage list ill pay it back when the lease is up  
>EB: well, as long as i get compensated for the trouble<br>TG: whatd you need?  
>EB: rose told me about your bro<br>EB: um, the little one that is not the large scary one  
>TG: oh yeah<br>TG: its going great  
>TG: no flaws in this plan i cant even tell you how fucking flawless it is and how perfect it is going<br>EB: that's good to hear, but i was more worried why you wanted to fix him to begin with  
>EB: there's nothing wrong with being a little normal<br>TG: egbert  
>TG: stop<br>TG: i cannot handle the strain of trying to comprehend why you would say that about my bro  
>TG: its a good joke though<br>EB: :(  
>EB: that hurts, dave<br>TG: man it shouldnt  
>TG: it works for you<br>TG: but on bro its just gross  
>EB: hehe, thanks dave!<br>EB: also, rose asked me to ask you how you were planning on fixing him?  
>TG: trade secret egbert<br>EB: come on dave, you know she won't let up until you tell me  
>EB: her<br>TG: i know  
>TG: but if i tell you and by extension her shell never leave me alone over it<br>EB: come on, it can't be that bad  
>TG: well no but i dont expect her to understand it<br>EB: what if i lie for you?  
>TG: youre a terrible liar but ok<br>TG: i lured him to a park after dark so no one else was there  
>TG: then i broke his nose<br>EB: dave!  
>EB: that's terrible :(<br>TG: well imagine my bro  
>TG: if you can i mean i know it can be a little overwhelming<br>EB: ok  
>TG: now imagine him with a perfectly straight rich guy nose<br>EB: he looks…  
>EB: pretty much the same<br>TG: no its awful  
>TG: like perpetually smug like he should be wearing a fucking argyle sweater vest and golf pants<br>EB: i'll, uh, take your word on that  
>EB: anyway, i promised rose i'd tell her<br>EB: so bye dave!  
>TG: dammit egbert you said you wouldnt<p>

- ectoBiologist [EB] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] -

TG: i swear to god i will pop your knee caps so bad if you do  
>TG: fucker<p>

You close the app with a curse and block Rose for good measure. She'll give up trying to lecture you after a couple days of being unable to contact you. If you're lucky.

The nurse calls you back and you follow her into a room with broth colored walls that make your stomach turn it's so ugly. You run through the regular checks, blood pressure to temperature to "how'd this happen" and then the doctor-nurse-whoever comes in and gets real close to your lip.

She laughs, writes you a prescription for an antibiotic cream but assures you that you won't need stitches. "Generally the mouth is too wet to stitch up," she says, "We only really recommend them in the case of cosmetic concern, but I don't really see a need for concern here."

You huff a thanks before leaving.

Bro drops the prescription off at the drugstore while you wait in the car, playing idly with the radio. You decide then to wait until your jaw and lip aren't so obviously wrecked before skipping back to pick up where you left off.


	3. Chapter 3

Renee answers the door again when you finally return around six o'clock in the evening, for them just a few days after the night in the park. You've brought a backpack with you, slung over your shoulder to add to your credibility and conceal what you've brought back with you (most of it bought with cash you lifted from your Bro's wallet while he watched and just didn't give a shit). She welcomes you in immediately and apologizes for the mess – really nothing to you, you live with Bro after all – and you laugh warmly. False courtesy, but she doesn't seem to notice or otherwise mind.

"He's been a bit nasty with us since last you were here," she frowns as she says it, her age showing in the lines by her eyes, "Got into a bit of trouble with some kids after school. The doctor said his nose will heal fine, if a bit crooked, but he's still sensitive about it. Please try not to mention it."

"Of course, not a word."

"Well, good luck, dear."

This time, when you get to his door at the end of the hall, you knock to give him a moment to compose himself best he can. You can hear him curse, turn off his stereo, and then the door opens just a slight.

You kick it open before he can slam it shut again and he shrinks back into the room like a frightened tomcat as you close the door softly.

"Hey," you say casually, dropping your bag to the floor. You notice the glasses you brought him before have been folded up and placed on the corner of his desk, just by his stereo.

His nose is a nasty purple color near the break and the bruise leaks to the circles under his eyes, makes him look tired and angry."What do you want?" he asks, shoulders stiff as he searches your face for the bruise, the cut he _knows _he left there. If it perturbs him that there's almost no trace of either, he plays it off well.

"Nothin' much," and you unzip the bag while he watches warily, rocking on the balls of his feet. You'd laugh, because you won't be hitting him again and he's skittish for it, but you don't want to ruin this.

Feigning disinterest like a pro, you dismissively hand him the record (the same one Bro had given to you when you were much younger, the one he'd told you was his first in not so many words). The Bro in this timeline slides it out of its sleeve and flips it over in his hands a few times. It's nothing _real_ special, more sentimental than anything, sure, but it still surprises you when he jams it back into the sleeve and throws it at you.

"You just here to give me useless shit? Because seems like that's all you're good for," he barks, too expressive maybe, because he winces and raises a hand to his face.

"This isn't useless," and it's weird to hear yourself sound angry, but fuck if this kid isn't just the _worst _Bro.

He licks his teeth, sets his jaw. His eyes daring you to do what the skin on your knuckles itch for.

You hold your breath, the blood hot in your neck and loud in your ears, and force yourself to calm down. "I'll show you," you say smoothly, already working the window open with a quiet determination in your bones.

When you're on the ground, he leans out the window, glares down at you. "I'm not going."

"It's worth it," you promise.

And he appears to consider it before vanishing back into his room. Your heart drops, disappointed, because this isn't how this is supposed to happen and your mouth tastes suddenly like cotton. When he climbs out the window with your bag on his shoulders, then, you're more pleased than you think reasonable.

He drops to the ground and his eyes are dark when he hisses, "It better be."

* * *

><p>The shop you take him to is ran by an older man you recognize as the father of the owner you know in the present. He's friendly, raises his eyebrows at the mess that's Bro's nose but lets you plug in the display set-up (which is impressive for the year, you think, as you check what all is working). You inspect the records on the table, switching out one you don't recognize for the one you brought with you. Bro watches your hands as you adjust the settings where you want them, really just getting familiar with the feel of it because of how much older and cheaper it is than the set-up you have at home. The owner waves to you as he disappears into the back, completely uninterested in the headache this will inevitably entail.<p>

You give Bro the headphones and you run something staggered, heavy and low for him, just to show him what it does, why your gift wasn't useless. It's not very elegantly done, not close to your best, but it gets him interested. He shoulders you aside and immediately changes the settings you had.

He's not sure what to do, what button and slide and knob does what, so the sound is harsh and pretty much fucking terrible for its regularity.

You hum, telling him what everything does and guiding his hands over it all as you show him how to cut, scratch, drop, shift, and so forth. He learns quickly, repeats back to you what you show him and something very much like pride glows soft in your gut and curls your mouth into a very subtle smile.

Bro protests when you pull him away, picking off the record and sliding it into the sleeve. "But," you say, bending it very slightly, "It's just useless shit."

"You're a jackass," he tells you, snatching it out of your hands defensively. "I was wrong; you were right, magical mystery man."

"My name's Dave," you tell him, taking the record back and putting it carefully back into the bag.

The way he repeats your name back to you is very soft and strange, as though he's testing the weight and taste of it on his tongue. The thought of it makes you feel oddly displaced, so you tilt your head to the door and lead him out to the bus stop.

It's hot outside and the air is still. You lean your head back against the bench and stretch your legs out. Bro sits to your right with the backpack on his lap, fidgeting with the zipper.

"What else is in here?" he asks, pulling off his hat and running his hand through his messy hair.

You grunt by way of response and sit up straight, quickly stealing his hat from him and setting it right on his head. "This looks better."

"No, it doesn't. I look like a fucking tourist."

"You wouldn't if you wore the damn shades I brought you."

"They're ugly."

"Depends on how you wear them," there's a finality in the statement that cuts off his reply and you can see him considering it. The screeching of brakes signals the bus' arrival and you pay the driver the fee for both of your passes and you move to the very back, where the only other occupant is a woman who is too absorbed in her compact mirror to care that you and your little-older Bro are taking up too much room. You can tell he's excited by the nervous jitter of his fingers against his knee, but you can't really bring yourself to berate him for it. He'll learn soon enough and you make a note to reinforce the idea of being inexpressive on your next visit, for now though you're content to let him enjoy himself.

The woman gets off at a stop ten minutes down the line and Bro looks at you, then, asks, "How long?"

You shrug.

The actual answer is another twenty minutes. The bus brings you to the very last stop, near the invisible border between civilization and desert, and you wave to the driver as you get off. You wait until the bus drives off again before walking steadfast into the desert, Bro close at your side because the desert is dark and not lit by any city lights.

"You're not going to beat me up again, are you?" he means it as a joke, but you can tell he's really considering it, too.

"Nah," and soon as you say it you hear him release a sigh of relief.

You don't take him out very far; just deep enough into the darkness that he'll be able to see clearer and the noise won't bother the houses at the edge of town. For his benefit, you made sure you could still see the halo of light that marks the street you left behind.

"Give me the bag." And he hands it to you without protest, looking back at the lights behind you.

You'd brought back a fucking ridiculous amount of fireworks, because you _know_ Bro likes them, likes the noise and the smell and how obnoxiously stupid they are. You're not sure if _this_ Bro is the same way, but you've got a feeling that he'll appreciate this regardless. The matches in your back pocket are bent to hell and it takes you a couple tries to get one lit, but when you do you make a victorious little sound in your throat and bend down to light one of the fountains.

You grab the backpack and push Bro back from the area you know it'll spray (one too many accidents when you were younger taught you when and how these motherfuckers go off). It's loud, but you don't bother covering your ears. Bro looks at you like you're stupid when you pull out another, a Catherine wheel, and struggle to light the match.

"You shouldn't be using matches," he tells you, even though he takes the book from you and lights one in go. He lights the fuse and you both move back out of the way.

The desert is a dead kind of quiet, the only noise the pop and screech of what you set off, but it's nice. You can tell that Bro is much more relaxed with you, now, the resentment he felt earlier this evening burnt up with all the cardboard shells of the fireworks you leave in the desert.

He's tired and talkative and friendly when you finally start your way back to his foster home. You don't say much in response; just keep an even pace with him as he tells you about school and Renee and Luke ("Renee's husband, you probably haven't met him.") and sad to angry secret sixteen-year-old things that you don't laugh at.

He talks to you the entire bus ride, the whole walk back to the yard, and you help him up into the tree and through the window. You set the record on his desk carefully, next to the sunglasses, and he pads down the stairs after you.

You're content to just leave without saying anything, because you've never been one for so many words, but he's very quiet as you walk down the steps and it unnerves you. So you look back, and your throat constricts at the hopeless need welled up in his eyes.

"You're coming back, though?" he asks you. Even though his voice is perfectly flat, you can tell that something very close to fondness is threatening to creep into it and you can't find it in you to just not answer, like you know you should.

"Sure."

He just nods, but you can tell he's glad for it as he closes the door.

The night finally catches up to you as you draw in the slow rush you recognize as time and you're asleep before you even make it to your bed.


	4. Chapter 4

It's the weekend, which means Bro will be home most of the day if he hasn't made plans to go out or host. You hope he has, you're not sure if you have the patience to deal with him and his ridiculous bullshit today.

As you move closer to the door, you can hear the shower running and you know you're out of luck. You could stay in your room until he leaves (he eventually will, he works late nights on the weekends) and it's likely he'll just leave you alone out of sheer disinterest, but if he gets the urge to bother you there's nothing you can do to keep him out. If you lock the door, he has a copy of the key ("Just bein' a responsible guardian, little man, making sure nothing too nasty happens on my watch.") and he'd make an even bigger show of coming in than if you just left it unlocked. You suppose you could leave altogether, go see a movie or people watch or chill at the library, but you'd have to boost money from Bro and that would require talking to him. Which is exactly the opposite of what you want to do today.

You can play this right, you've played this right for years and by now it really should be second nature. The water shuts off with a _thuinnk _that's louder in the walls than in the bathroom and you sneak into the kitchen, slide into one of the wooden chairs after arranging a bowl of cereal you're not even going to consider eating after checking the expiration date. It's better to just get it out of the way, you've got a sixty-forty chance he'll take your brazen lack of… hiding, you guess, as a hint to step the fuck off for the whole day.

The bathroom door creaks open and the fan sputters on to clear the steam. You can hear Bro humming, tapping out something new against the walls as he kicks open the door to his room. He comes into the kitchen maybe five minutes later – you judge this by the revolting swelling of the cereal in your bowl – with three ties hooked over one arm while he combs back his hair to look proper.

You've never once seen him in formal wear and it's very striking, without his gloves or shades or hat. The crisp black of his jacket slims his shoulders and makes him look like the adult that he is. He tosses the comb in the trash – it's no wonder you can never find one in the morning if he's just been tossing them out, the prick – and raps his knuckles against the table.

"Which one?" he asks you and you notice that each of the ones he's brought out are red.

"Dude, they're all the same, just pick one."

"_This_ one's Robert Talbott. Feel this shit. It's like it's made of baby skin, so soft," he says and rubs it on your cheek, like that's the normal thing to do.

You're silent, just stare up at him with a very dead look on your face and he seems expectant.

"Fuck, you're right," he says loosely, leaving the ties on the oddly sticky table (you eye the Talbott like a fucking snake because who spends that much on a _tie_). His long fingers work open the top button of his dress shirt and he jerks his collar a couple times, wrinkling it. He pulls his wallet out of the jacket pocket, pulls out two twenties and leaves them on the table for you. "Won't be home for a couple days, probably. Keep yourself fed."

And even though he works late, _really_ late, he's always home. Your guts twist up with a weird kind of panic and it doesn't feel right to you that your brother is disappearing into the world so sharply dressed and adult-looking. It feels distinctly like abandonment and it doesn't matter that he's coming back eventually or that you're old enough now to be trying to take care of yourself, you aren't ready for this or the feelings it stirs up. So you ask, very calmly and with just the right amount of not-caring, "Where are you going? Dressed like that?"

"Funeral. Up in Odessa," and he's unbuttoning his jacket, "Just trying this on, make sure it fits. Can't drive in expensive clothes, man, fucks 'em up."

"Oh," you say. Your head feels thick, because you don't know who he could possibly know well enough to attend their funeral. He's never brought anyone home or talked about anybody and this is all so strange. "Who?"

"Foster dad, the last one," he tells you and you're not sure, but you think that his hands were shaking just a little while he loosened his cuffs. Relief eats up all the strange things that had coiled in your throat and you realize this is exactly what you need.

"I'm coming," you say definitively, fully expecting him to fight you on it. But if he says yes than it means the Bro you're mentoring in the past to be sick as fuck isn't _your _Bro, the one with the steady wrists and scarred knuckles and tight laugh. If he says no, if he shuts down, then you know you've got to stop going back because you can't handle knowing that Bro knows what you're doing before you do it.

He looks at you for a minute that seems to you to drag on forever (you think maybe you're just too sensitive to the feel of time), eyes unguarded by his shades but still unreadable, and his voice is too even to not be serious when he says, "You've never been interested before, Dave."

You shrug, letting your shades fall slightly down your nose so you can look directly at him. It takes some effort to keep your eyes hard, but you know it works. "Because you've been so open with me."

Anybody else would miss the way his mouth seems to get harder, thinner, but you take a great deal of pride in not being just anybody.

"Pack your shit," he says as he turns away from you, goes back to his room to change out of his suit. You're trying to swallow the velvet sensation covering your tongue when he shouts, "Something _nice_ and not the red one."

You don't bother telling him the red one doesn't fit anymore, hasn't fit for years, because you're too busy soaking up this victory. It's small, but you think it's important.

* * *

><p>He doesn't tell you it'll take the better part of nine hours to get to Odessa until you're an hour and a half out of Houston and when he finally does, he's so fucking smug looking you ask him to pull over at every single rest stop you see a sign for just to eat up time. It doesn't take him long to catch onto this, being your Bro and all, and after the second time of waiting for you to stop dicking around in the bathroom he starts to just ignore you. You feel a little stupid, then, when less than an hour later you actually have to piss and he drives right on by the stop.<p>

"Fuck, man," you say, too loud over the hiss of static on the radio, "Just pull over. I am going to fucking piss myself in your car and it's gonna melt into the seat – that's never coming out. And when it starts to get hot, like hundred-two degrees, you're gonna be stuck with it, like you've got a bunch of retarded puppies pissin' in your backseat."

He looks at you briefly, seems to consider what you're saying. "Puppies whine less."

But he pulls over anyway, lets you do your thing in the dust outside and the radio is totally off when he pulls back onto the highway.

He stops in Kerrville to get gas and sends you inside to get you both something to eat.

After that you sort of fall asleep because, well, the desert doesn't exactly offer a wide array of entertainment avenues.

* * *

><p>He wakes you up with a simple "Wait in the car."<p>

As you adjust in the seat, you recognize the house you're parked in front of. It isn't a surprise but it still causes you to hiccup in time and suddenly you're standing in front of the same house twenty-two years ago and you're almost too tired in that just-woke-up way to catch yourself when the lights flick on upstairs. You pull yourself back to the present, dig your nails into your palms to help you wake up proper. It isn't safe to lose it like that, over something so _small_.

Bro's shoulders block the view inside, but you don't need to see her to know it's Renee he's talking to. His posture lets you know this isn't where you're staying the night and you're glad for it, afraid that you'd skip back without meaning to if you stay too long. You sink deeper into the seat, your legs cramped and crawling with ants and needle pricks.

It's slight, barely noticeable, but the lines of his mouth are strained and tired as he gets back into the car.

"What's wrong?" you ask, shameless in your exhaustion and for once you're unafraid of letting him know you're not as callous as he taught you to be. Still, he waves you off and grunts out a "nothing" before pulling out of the driveway. You're not sure what, exactly, you can do for him and you feel very small.

If your mouth wasn't so dry and your heart wasn't pounding so fast, so high in your throat, you'd apologize for something you feel very strongly is your fault. But you're not that kind of guy, besides, and as you stare through half-lidded eyes you don't really think he's ever needed you to be.

He pulls into a motel and checks a room out for two nights. There are two beds, both small, but you're grateful for it anyway. In the very first apartment you can remember from your childhood, the one you were in when you were maybe five, there was only one bedroom because that's all Bro could afford (though of course he's never told you that). You had to share a bed with him and, more frequently than you're probably aware, you'd wake up on the floor wrapped up in a thin sheet you'd somehow managed to steal from him before he pushed you off the bed. You don't imagine his sleeping habits are much better now that you're both older.

You claim the shower as Bro hauls both suitcases inside, holding the dry cleaning bag you've put your formal wear in over his shoulder. Your skin feels sticky from so long in the car and you moan into the steam that rises from the hot water rolling off your shoulders. It burns a little, pricks against your skin like sunburn, you've got it up so hot.

By the time you get out, Bro's already asleep, sprawled haphazard on the bed nearest the door. You creep past him and click the light off, leaving only the dull electric blue glow of the television on after you mute the volume.

You're restless, not even a semblance of tired after your shower and all the sleeping you did in the car ride up. There's absolutely no way you're going to be able to sleep, but you don't want to leave the room – it'll almost definitely wake Bro up and then fuck if you know how long it'll take him to get back to sleep (and you would have to sit through a lot of passive-aggressive bitching by way of not speaking). It comes down to staring at the ceiling and listening to Bro breathe – loudly, like he hasn't slept right in months – and you can't remember the last time a night took so long to get through.


	5. Chapter 5

You've never been to a funeral and for the first five minutes the experience is novel, but soon it all winds down into a pit of general goopy faces and people trying to look brave for other people who gave up years ago. The repast is a little better, because you can disengage yourself from Bro's side and properly ignore everybody.

Bro looks good, even if he also looks like a stranger with his hair brushed back and his shades folded over the pocket on his coat. He wears the cheap suit well, with the collar ruffled and open at the top, the jacket not done up proper, his cuffs unbuttoned and loose and it isn't long at all before the younger people start gravitating towards him.

It's off-putting for you, as you watch him from the seat you've taken near the back of the funeral home, because a part of you still feels like he owes you an explanation of, well, _anything_ at all. You'd thought that if you went with him, maybe he'd open up even just a little bit, but he's so far maintained his cool-dude distance and you're starting to regret not staying at home. At least you'd have the xbox to yourself.

"You must be Dave."

And you almost jump, because you were so busy glowering at your brother schmoozing with all the young ladies even though somebody just _died_ that you didn't notice the woman who sat down next you. It's just Renee, though, older and more tired looking and you watch her very carefully for any sign of recognition.

"Hey," you say, turning your gaze back to the small crowd gathered around your brother. He's watching you; you can feel it, even though he maintains a convincing façade of total rapt attention with the brunette he's talking to.

"I don't believe we've ever met," she says, polite and conversational, "My name's Renee. I was Broderick's foster mother for four years. I don't believe he's ever mentioned having a brother."

"Yeah, well, he never mentioned keeping contact with any of his foster families, either," your voice is hard, colder than you meant it to be but it's hard not to be short with her. Not when you know what she pretends to not.

"No, I didn't think he would."

You grunt, scoot over until your shoulder presses into the wall and you cross your arms over your chest. She's staring at you, trying to read you, and you watch as Bro dismisses himself from the conversation and ambles over with slow, practiced steps. Renee sees him, too, and it seems to you that she talks faster, more determinedly than before.

"So, Dave," she starts, "You look an awful lot like your brother."

"Sure," you respond, the hair on your arms rises in discomfort and you feel like you're pinned under glass, stuck to corkboard with pushpins, with a little paper label with _Dave Strider _typed up on it like you're some sort of specimen on display.

"Do you work, Dave?"

You don't like the way she's using your name, like she's going to anchor you into answering, bog you down with asinine questions until you admit to whatever she asks you to. Your jacket feels too hot, too restrictive, and you very subtly loosen the buttons on your cuffs. You say, "No."

"Oh? Aren't you a little old to be relying solely on Broderick?"

Like she's trapped you with it, that's what she sounds like. Your mouth feels salty and rough; you suck on your teeth as you try to think of an answer.

"He has a problem keeping track of time," Bro says, his voice calm and rich and you feel very warm, very grateful because he's saved you. His shoulders are straight and he has a hard look in his eyes that doesn't leave a lot of room for questions.

"That's a shame," she says slowly.

"Nah, he keeps the house clean," he drones, tilting his head up just a slight to look down his nose at her.

"I didn't expect you to come."

"Neither did I."

"Why did you?"

You feel like a voyeur, tucked into the corner like you are and listening to them talk like this and the glow that had warmed your ribs is subsiding as the edge in Bro's voice gets sharper. He's considering how to answer, you can see that, and it's not a surprise to anybody there when he eventually just shrugs.

"Felt like I had to," he says plainly, "Personal obligation."

"You don't owe us anything, you know."

He laughs derisively and she narrows her eyes. "It's not that."

She stands, smoothes her hands over her blouse and she looks skeleton thin and tired. "Thank you, anyway, Broderick. It was good to see you again."

Bro hums in response, slides into the spot she vacated and gives you the smallest smirk. "Sorry, man. She can be kind of a bitch."

"Nothing I couldn't have handled," you say, setting your jaw.

"'Course," he says and he stares straight ahead, towards the front of the room where there's a table covered in flowers you don't know the name of and pictures of a man who might as well have always been dead, for all you knew of him.

This close to you, your brother is all you can smell – gin and aftershave and that sharp musky scent that is uniquely him – and it's overwhelming. You can't think for it, besides realizing it's weird you've never noticed before when you had the chance a thousand times. You have the presence of mind to straighten your posture and you know he notices the way your fingers dig into your arms.

"We'll leave in a few," he says, rising from the bench, "Gotta take care of something first."

Your head is swimming, your vision a noxious swirl of pale light you can't identify the source of, and you stumble in an unusually undignified way outside. You don't need to turn around to know Bro's watching you, tracking your movements like a coyote.

The air is hot in your mouth, tastes like Texas dust and sarsaparilla, but it's clearer than the air inside. You sit down on the curb by Bro's car; press your forehead against your knees now that no one can see you do it. A part of you knows that you're missing something important, that you're just not getting _it_ because _it_is being an evasive bastard. You wish again that you hadn't come, it would've saved you the headache.

When your iPhone vibrates against your thigh you consider dropping it into the storm drain. You only refrain because you don't think you can handle any more feelings of weird passive-disappointment from Bro.

- ectoBiologist [EB] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] -

EB: dave  
>EB: unblock rose, she really needs to talk to you!<br>TG: dude no  
>TG: what does she even need<br>TG: what do you need  
>EB: um, i'm not sure exactly<br>EB: but she says it's really important, to all of us!  
>TG: oh fucking boy<br>TG: look egbert i am busy  
>EB: oh, sorry :(<br>TG: yeah theres people mourning and shit and i am the chillest one in the whole room  
>TG: there are certain responsibilities that come with that<br>EB: ugh, you always do this  
>EB: look, dave, i don't know if you're actually busy<br>EB: you sort of lie about that a lot...  
>EB: but if you are i apologize!<br>EB: but i'm just going to copypaste it all to you if you're not going to unblock her  
>TG: nah<p>

- turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering ectoBiologist [EB] –

You block John, too, just for good measure, accidentally accepting the notification from Jade in the process.

- gardenGnostic [GG] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] -

GG: hey dave!  
>TG: for fucks sake you people need to step off my business<br>GG: what business is that…?  
>TG: oh come on<br>TG: everybody knows by now it is seriously the worst kept secret  
>GG: its still a secret to me :C<br>TG: so you dont know  
>GG: noooooope<br>TG: christ thank you  
>GG: haha sure thing bro!<br>GG: by the way... can you still do the time hopping thing?  
>TG: yeah<br>GG: ooooh  
>TG: why?<br>GG: because i cant do the space thing anymore! :C  
>TG: shit really<br>GG: yeah! D:  
>TG: ok so you cant do the space thing anymore and i can do the time travel bullshit still<br>TG: do rose and john still have their powers  
>GG: john i know for sure hasnt been able to do it in years :U<br>TG: seriously  
>TG: shit<br>GG: i dont know about rose though...  
>TG: just ask her<br>GG: i am!  
>GG: but i wanted to know if it still worked for you, considering how often you abuse it i figured youd be the first to know<br>TG: its not abuse if im doing awesome important shit  
>TG: which i totally am<br>GG: suuuuuure thing dave ;)  
>TG: god you people all of you its like youre just trying to piss me off<br>GG: dave! the thing with bro doesn't really qualify as important!  
>TG: fuck<br>TG: fuckers  
>TG: all of you<br>GG: haha, good luck dave!  
>GG: 3<p>

- gardenGnostic [GG] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] -

You block all of your friends, every last one of them to put an end to the ridiculous animosity they have for you and your noble endeavor. You're a little worried your friends are losing (or, in Jade and John's case, have already lost) the abilities the game gave you all, but you don't really think it's breaking news. You're positive you'd discussed the possibility of them having an expiration date after the game spit you back out. It could also be that they just forgot how.

Bro comes out of the funeral home sliding his shades over his eyes and stuffing a piece of folded paper into his pocket. He pretends not to see you, gives you that courtesy, but when he starts the car he reaches across the seat to open the passenger door for you. You get inside and the atmosphere is noticeably colder, a little bit more strained.

"I thought the room was for two nights," you say it because you're not sure what else to say, because Bro isn't looking at you and is clicking through the radio like it's going to play something worthwhile.

"Real observant."

"Okay."

"Still got somethin' to do. Chill out."

You fight the urge to argue that you are the chillest of them all, that you could solve the whole issue of global warming if you just went and spent the week in the arctic circle you're so fucking chill, but there's no point to it. You're both completely quiet all the way back to the room, where Bro leaves you with the second key and changes into less stiff looking clothes. He leaves without telling you where he's going or when he'll be back.

You dress down after he leaves, deciding to use the time to go back and spend time with your less dickly – but arguably more aggravating – brother. You pull yourself to a block away from his house during the early afternoon. By the time you knock on the door, you can feel the sticky heat of sweat in the hair on the back of your neck.

A less accusatory Renee lets you inside without much ado and you climb the stairs quietly, let yourself into Bro's room without knocking. You judge by the state of his nose that it's been a couple weeks since you were last here and you feel a little guilty.

He doesn't startle, just grunts in acknowledgment as you close the door behind you and he continues carefully folding clothes into a large duffel bag. You sit down on the edge of his bed; keep your mouth a thin line until he offers you an explanation.

Eventually, he stops and sits next to you, fidgeting with the sunglasses you still haven't seen him wear. He swallows, tries his best not to look upset and you're a little proud at the front he's managing (though admittedly with effort) to put up, "I'm gonna run away."

You tilt your head, give him the smallest smile. "Alright. Let's do this. Let's make this happen."

And he's relieved, like he thought you were going to stop him or try to talk him out of it. His smile is too wide, shows too much teeth and you're surprised to find it so appealing, wishing perversely that present-Bro would smile more like this instead of the tight-lipped looks he's always giving you. Your skin feels warmer and you take the sunglasses out of his hands, put them on him while his mouth screws up in a scowl.

He snorts a laugh, kicks off the bed. "Okay. I'm gonna leave tonight."

You promise him you'll help in not so many words and you spend the rest of the day helping him pack.


	6. Chapter 6

Around seven he shows you to the door and you make a point of saying goodbye to Renee. You wait maybe six minutes before climbing up the pecan tree and through the window Bro left open for you. He doesn't come up until a half-hour later, dragging his backpack behind him and dropping it by the desk.

You're curious, really curious, where he's planning on going and for how long and _why, why_ but you don't ask him anything. You just chew on the inside of your mouth and think about how this is good for him. It's quite possibly the most important step toward gaining that special breed of Strider independence and if he can handle this, pull this off without getting caught and without any great amount of help from you, then maybe he'll turn out okay.

So you don't give him any advice at all, even though you've got a pretty solid idea how _you'd _do it. He doesn't seem to need it anyway, composes himself like he knows exactly what he's doing, and keeps you out of the loop, affords you no details insofar as his actual plan.

"You might try to stop me," he told you, plain and easy, before he walked you to the door.

You'd said, "I wouldn't."

And it was _true_. You'd never try to dissuade him from becoming who he should be and your unique position allows you to see the bigger picture here. This has to happen, you're sure of it, something in your blood tells you it has to and your somethings have yet to be wrong.

It's eleven at night and outside the street is almost perfectly dark, no house lights are lit and it's quiet as a eulogy reading. Bro slips downstairs and you idle time by watching a stringy looking stray cat hop on the fence, a mangled scorpion in its small jaws. It bites into the tiny twisting body and with the window open you can hear every crunch and pop and burst of its exoskeleton.

He comes back into the room so silently you almost fail to notice his reentry. His fingers work at removing a single copper colored key from the ring and he leaves it in plain sight on the desk.

"House key," he tells you, pushing the remaining keys into his pocket.

"Where are you going?" you ask, because the curiosity gnawing at your insides has you nearly desperate for details.

He shrugs and the corner of his mouth quirks up ever so slightly, "Can't tell you."

"How much money do you have?"

Bro laughs, tight and short, shrugs again. "I got this, Dave. Chill out."

It hits you very suddenly, then, that this is something he's _had_ planned – maybe for months. Pride swells with a warm glow-y feeling in your chest. Maybe he never needed you at all.

He takes his hat off and pulls on one that you're more familiar with, having seen it on him ever since you can remember. The old one is stuffed into the duffel bag haphazardly and you doubt you'll be seeing him wear it again.

For two hours he goes through everything and double-checks some mental list he has compiled. At one in the morning he finally does something interesting and drops the duffel out the window as quietly and carefully as he can, climbing swiftly down after. He's moved into the driveway and is hauling the duffel bag into the bed of the truck parked by Renee's minivan by the time you get down and you're impressed with how quickly he's moving while still being properly thorough.

He unlocks the door, climbs inside and puts it in neutral before releasing the parking brake, very carefully letting it roll back into the street. When he's got the truck roughly straight on the road he hops back out, urges you over.

"We're gonna have to push it a block or two up the road."

"You're stealing it?"

His shoulders fall and he turns his head away, doesn't look at you. "Not much of a choice, Dave."

And he's right, of course, because the buses don't run this late and he can't stay in town, not if he doesn't want to get caught. You wonder how many times he's done this, how many times he's _considered_ doing this. He won't answer you honestly if you ask, so instead you open the passenger door for leverage and help him push the truck the necessary distance. When he's sure the noise won't alert anybody capable of immediately recognizing him or the truck he starts it up, relief lending him confidence.

"You don't gotta come," he says, slow and even but you know him (or who he becomes) well enough to know that he _wants_you to.

"You barely know me," you could reassure him, climb inside and bullshit all the way to wherever he's going, but you don't want to push this when you aren't sure what "this" even is.

He seems to consider that, stares right through you with a look you can't read because he's got his shades on. He swallows and smiles a little hopelessly. "You, uh, feel familiar. Like somebody I've known a long time."

Something soft spreads inside your chest, coats your throat with a sensation like warm honey. You nod once, climb inside and try not to notice the way he practically jumps with pleasure, the way his teeth bite into his lip and he swallows again to refrain from saying something stupid.

* * *

><p>You stop trying to keep track of time after only two hours on the highway, but eventually the sun rises and the desert warms up and glows this surreal golden rust color on the horizon.<p>

Bro doesn't look nervous, keeps his face cool and calm, but his knuckles stand a stark white against the black of the steering wheel. He hasn't said anything to you, probably doesn't even know _what _to say now that you're too far out of town to go back, but he keeps looking to you when the anxiety proves too much to hide.

You consider saying something to calm him down, unravel the awkward heat that's sure to be coiling up in his guts, but your heart seems permanently lodged in your throat and you can't talk around it. If you had to name the feeling, you'd probably call it concern or something equally bullshit, because you don't know what happens if he's caught.

So you stay quiet, watch the endless stretch of dirt and mesquite through the window and keep perfectly still. You don't know how far or in what direction you're going – all of it dependent on how far he feels he needs to go – but you trust him to know where.

He pulls off the road completely at the mile marker, dust billowing up like a flock of startled birds as the tires catch the dirt, and he sets his jaw. "Aren't you gonna ask why?"

"No."

"Why not?" It's accusatory in a way that makes your breath hitch on the knot in your throat.

"If you wanted to tell me, you would," you don't look at him as you say it; just watch the highway fade in the rear-view mirror.

"What if there was a real fucking stupid reason?"

You do look at him, then, raise your eyebrows just a little but keep your eyes covered. "Enough to make you boost a car. Can't be that bad."

He looks pleased with your answer, raises his chin and loosens his grip on the wheel. "Took six-twenty in cash, too."

It takes a little effort not to say something under-cutting so that he doesn't feel _good_ about this and it feels weird to you because Bro didn't exactly tolerate any kind of shit from you, but here he is. Instead you say, "Is it enough?"

"No," his response is immediate and you _know_, really know, this is something he's done before. "But I know some people – aged-out kids who, uh, were in the group home – who're willing to help. They get it."

"In the middle of nowhere."

"Don't be a dick," he says, "There's an old property out here that gets rented out in the summer – rest of the year s'empty."

"How –"

"Used it before. Spare key is in the crawlspace under the house. Nobody knew I'd been there - didn't turn on anything or use anything – so it's safe."

Your throat feels cracked, baked with spider-webs to mirror the desert, and you can't bring yourself to ask how many times he's ran. If he wants you to know, he'll tell you.

"It's right up there," he says, points to a shape obscured by the swirl of heat in the distance.

From what you can tell it's in pretty good condition – the wood fence is rotted out in a couple of places but this far out there's really no need for it. He parks the truck and jumps out before you can say anything.

He disappears around the side and you try to rationalize what the fuck you're doing. As far as anyone is concerned you don't exist, no paperwork attached to your identity and there's no such thing as legal liability for a ghost, but that doesn't stop you from feeling your insides crawl at assisting him in… this. You could call his foster parents but it absolutely kills you to think on how much he'd hate you for it. He can't be out like this _alone_, either, and the idea of that sits worse with you than anything else because he's still your brother.

He's brushing dirt off his shirt and pants when he comes back, a key held carefully in one palm as though it might break. You get out of the truck while he unlocks the door, entering with no hesitation and taking off his shoes, rolling up the bottoms of his jeans a couple inches ("Can't clean up the dirt real well."). He starts opening the windows and searches the closets for a blanket.

You take your shoes off by the door, brush away what's ridden up the ankles of your jeans. He looks grateful for it and you just shrug.

"How long you staying here?"

"Couple hours. Just need to sleep somewhere that's not in there," and he gestures vaguely to the truck parked outside and spreads out a sheet over the couch.

He stars peeling his shirt off, knocking off his hate and shades in the process, and you can't really help the way you just watch or the way your gut tightens around the uncomfortable feelings it stirs up. His skin isn't as taut as it will be, less muscle chorded underneath, and he's paler, the freckles peppered over his shoulder stand out much starker than you remember. You look away – not that he can really tell for the sunglasses – before he turns around and he apologizes for the delay this'll cause.

"They probably won't call the cops until later tonight, anyway," he says, running his tongue over his lower lip while he thinks.

You settle into the chair closest to the door and across from the couch he's stretching out on and you press your nails into your palms until it hurts. "How d'you figure?"

And he doesn't bother not trying to sound bitter, "My file is filled with this kinda shit. It's expected."

Something very close to pity rises sour in your throat and you don't know whether or not to press the issue. You're curious, Bro as you know him never talked about any of this stuff and if a younger him is willing to trust you with it…

It takes all your self-control to keep your voice smooth and deadpan, and even then it still sounds strange and shaky to your ears. "And what did you do?"

He keeps his back to you and you can see his shoulders and the groove of his spine tighten defensively. "Lots. Didn't get along with other kids, fought a lot. Took all kinds of stuff – little shit, y'know, like cheap jewelry and, uh, things like books. I got moved around a lot and after the third home it got way harder to place me anywhere 'cause of all the fucking requirements. So I ran. Got caught three days out and _that_ got added, too."

You keep quiet, run your nails across the rough fabric of the armrest, just listen and listen and don't say anything.

"I dunno, Dave, I guess I'm just a shitty kid," it's not as bitter sounding, as angry, but there's a heavy undercurrent of defeat that would break your heart if you didn't know it got better.

But it does. It will. Eventually.


	7. Chapter 7

He wakes up on his own, which is just as well, because you've been nodding in and out of sleep for the past hour. After he's shook out the sheet in the yard, folded it up and put it back in the closet, he drags you into true wakefulness with a playful punch to your shoulder. While he shuts all the windows, you stretch out the stiffness in your joints, reveling in the way your spine pops two, three times and afterward you feel very loose.

You meet him by the truck after he's wriggled out from underneath the house, covered in a new layer of mars colored dust, and when you offer to drive he shoots you down.

"I like to, don't gotta think," he says squarely, turning the key in the ignition, "You look like an automatic kind of guy, anyway."

"Give me some credit, man – I know my way around a stick shift."

"Sure, Dave, I can see that."

You set your mouth in a severe line, tilt your head to look out the window. The sun is much higher now, the air much hotter on your tongue, and you don't look forward to when the truck's old a/c unit gives out.

The quiet is nice, because there isn't a whole lot that either of you need to say to another, not when he's told you so much already and you're trying to really digest it. You understood a long time ago that Bro had never really been a model citizen – you've dine and ditched too many times to ever truly believe it – but something about it now feels off, settles strange and thick in your blood like after you've had too much to drink (in secret, of course, just trying it out because for whatever reason Bro holds you to higher standards than himself).

And you understand, then, maybe a little later than you're proud of, because it seems so painfully obvious now and if you weren't so busy being so fucking cool you probably could've noticed earlier. "They were going to move you again?"

His shades are pushed up on his head, so you can see the way his eyes flick over to you very briefly, considering. He licks his lips, says, "Yeah."

It doesn't seem right – you _know _they don't move him, that they hold onto him until he's too old to be a ward of the state anymore – but you don't know how to tell him all this without giving yourself away and making yourself out to be a lunatic. Something in your gut tightens and your throat constricts, "How do you know?"

He looks annoyed, like you don't believe him and you don't, but not for the reasons he's thinking. You can tell he wants to say something vindictive, in order to prove… something, you're not sure, but he must think better of it because his face falls and he looks very vulnerable. "When you've been moved around so much, you sort of pick up on these things. I just know."

"The state's gotta have something in place to prevent it from happening so frequently. Can't be good to ship kids around like a fucking FedEx package lost in transit."

"The state doesn't _gotta_ have anything – it just takes a phone call, Dave, and _bam_!" he slams his fist against the wheel, teeth bared and voice bitter, "You're gone, all your stuff packed up and you're off to a new house with new people and probably too many fucking kids who yell all the time because two people can't pay enough attention to every fucking one of them. If you don't fit in, you're gone. There's too many kids and not enough people for it to really matter what's _good_ for us."

You open your mouth to say something, your nails digging into your thigh, but he cuts you off. "I wasn't gonna wait around for them to make that call. See, m'too old to waste my time being displaced in schools and houses. In two years I get thrown out anyway, I'm just kick-starting it."

You know he's wrong, but you remain quiet after as though you agree with him because you don't know what you can say that will stop the very subtle shake in his shoulders.

He pulls off the highway at an exit with a sign too faded to read and into a Flying J overcrowded with sixteen wheelers in the side-lot and faded minivans with rear windows stacked up with blankets and pillows. You take the twenty he hands you for gas without much hesitation and you spend your time in line staring at the cigarette rack behind the counter. You loiter around inside, straightening the candy in their racks and trying on stupid trucker hats, until you see him wave from the truck to pick up the change.

Then you're back on the highway, chewing on the inside of your cheeks until a telltale metallic taste fills your mouth. Bro is quiet, spaced out but focused on the road, and you have no idea how anybody can enjoy driving for hours like this. Sitting in one place staring at a landscape that varies from flat desert with ugly shrubs to hilly desert with more ugly shrubs – it's not exactly picturesque.

You're feeling cramped, your legs ache no matter how you move them, and your neck creaks in a way that makes your skin crawl.

"When're you stopping?" you ask, because you're starting to lose feeling below your waist and your shoulders are too stiff.

"You tired?"

You shrug, because that's not true, you're just bored and restless.

"There's a motel up ahead, maybe thirty minutes out, we can stop there."

"You won't get far out if you gotta pay for rooms."

"Not paying for it," he says, and he just smirks when you raise your eyebrows, "It's an older building – still uses the pin tumbler locks."

"Sure," you say and you lean your head back against the seat.

* * *

><p>He parks near the back of the motel, so that the truck is mostly hidden from the main offices (not that they're really interested in what their customers are driving), and he spends a few moments discretely checking for an empty room that has vacant neighbors, as well. Eventually he gestures you up to the second floor, where he's got the door cracked and is slipping inside. You take his bag out of the back of the truck and haul it up for him, set it on the bed by the door.<p>

"Thanks, Dave," he says absently from the bathroom, where he's undoubtedly checking for the complimentary travel sized toiletries and you hear the shower turn on.

You hum in response as you lock and deadbolt the door, then tug off the thicker blanket from your bed to hang over the curtain rod to black out the room and hide you both from curious viewers. You've collapsed on the bed nearer the bathroom when he comes out, naked save for the towel around his waist, and you focus your gaze on the wall to your left stubbornly. You're not going to look, not for the heat crawling up your neck like a disease or the coiling of something equally insistent in your groin.

You fail spectacularly, though thankfully he doesn't notice the way you're raking your eyes over his back and legs and the bend of his spine as he digs through his bag for something to wear. Not that he'd be able to tell for the merciful uncertainty your shades afford you, anyway.

Still, you've excused yourself to the bathroom before he can turn around and recognize the terrible flush coloring your otherwise pale face for what it is. You set your sunglasses down on the counter, next to where he's left his own pair and hat, and press the heels of your palms into your eyes until you see colors bloom and fade in the weirdest shapes behind your eyelids. The water's still hot when you turn it on and as you step inside you slide down the wall until you're sitting very awkwardly on the shower floor.

You feel very stupid, then, with your hand wrapped around your dick like you're not actually doing this to the image of your younger-older brother squirming beneath your touch and mouth and begging you to never stop, ever. It's not like you've harbored some creepy attraction to Bro your whole life or, at the very least, you've never _recognized_ it for the horrible thing that it is. Because in some ways, of _course _you're attracted to Bro – he's Bro, he's practically served as godhead your whole life and he smells nice, looks nice, and you're almost positive he'd taste nice too. The fact that the Bro here in the motel with you is more to your playing field just aggravates it all and stronger than the revulsion your brain is trying to force to the forefront of your brain, you feel aroused and very warm.

You're not quiet when you finish, hard and in thick hot spurts that slide sticky down your belly as the water washes it off and you almost don't say anything when he knocks on the bathroom door to make sure you're okay.

"You've been in there a long time," he says loudly.

"Sure have," you manage to croak as you right yourself in the shower.

"Um," and there's the strangest lilt to his voice, like he knows what you're doing because he's sixteen, "Are you okay?"

"Yep."

You rush through the process of actually cleaning yourself to prove your point and you're only wearing your jeans and shades when you slide into your bed. The light's off, but you can tell that Bro is watching you from his bed, waiting for you to say something. You're not sure what, exactly, he wants you to say so you don't say anything, just pull the comforter up to your nose and adjust your sunglasses so that they sit right on your nose. It's very still and quiet and you can hear him breathe.

"Are you wearing those to bed?"

"Yes."

"Fucking stupid thing to do. What if they break?"

"They won't."

"Why?"

"Got sensitive eyes."

"It's dark."

"Secret, then," you say smugly, your satisfaction thick in your voice.

He sighs, exasperated, and you hear the blankets shift around him as he turns over and away from you. Or you think so, because it's hard for you to see well in the dark with your sunglasses on, obviously, and you don't want to risk taking them off for any reason. If anything, your eyes are a dead ringer for who you are to him.

Your bed dips and you almost jump, because this isn't what you were expecting at all. He should be sleeping over in his own bed and contemplating the experience of simply being around you and figuring out how to apply your own attributes to himself, but he's not. He's climbing very carefully into your bed and worming his way under the covers while maintaining a careful distance from you.

You can feel the heat radiating from his body and smell the weird sweetness of his breath, could even touch him if you wanted to, but you don't. You lay there and set your jaw and suck on your teeth so that you can pretend you're going to do the responsible thing.

He doesn't come any closer; just stays rooted to the spot he's got himself in, but you can hear the erratic shift in his breathing even though he tries to keep it quiet. You don't move, because that's admitting defeat, admitting that this makes you uncomfortable and _nothing_ makes you uncomfortable (barring Bro's puppets, of course).

You're hyper aware of everything now, of every noise he makes, of the temperature in the room, of the shifting darkness, of the way he smells. Your palms itch and you turn over in the bed, leave your back to him until his breath evens out the way a sleeping person's does and you turn back around.

There is no way, absolutely no chance that you're going to be able to get to bed. So you settle for slowing your breathing and just watching Bro sleep, consider the pros of leaving before morning, before he wakes up.


	8. Chapter 8

Over the years you've had this wire-thin awareness trained into you by Bro – reinforced by night after night after night of sneak attacks that often left you to trudge exhausted through school the next day (and maybe you should thank him for it, because how many times has it saved your life?) – so when the Bro in bed with you tries to very, very carefully lift your shades from your face you snap awake from slumber you don't remember falling into. You've got him pinned beneath you, his arms above his head, and he's _laughing_ and you're breathing ragged because shit, _shit_. You can feel the heat pour off his body and his breath wash over your face and it only takes you a second to realize he's not wearing anything but his boxers.

Your shoulders are tense, your grip is too tight on his wrists, and you're sure he can notice the way you're sucking down air between clenched teeth like you're drowning. Still, he doesn't seem to care, just keeps grinning like a fucking moron even after he's stopped laughing. You let go of wrists and slide off him until you're sitting on the edge of the bed. He sits up next to you, reaches over to turn the light on, and it's only a moment before his eyes shamelessly run you up and down.

"What happened?" he asks, pointing to the patchwork of scar tissue that is mirrored on your back.

You stare at the wall just over his shoulder, say, "Accident."

"Jesus," he breathes out and his voice is thin, "It looks like you got shot. A lot."

"Maybe," and you can't tell him that you _did_, that you died, that for years afterward you dreamt of all the ways all those other Daves died, too, because he doesn't know anything yet. Too young to know what Bro knew before even you did. You collapse back on the bed; your feet still flat on the floor, and fold your arms over your face.

He's quiet for a long time, but your skin tingles where his fingers are hovering over the twist of white and pink tissue that marks where bullets tore through your guts and skin and you're very careful to swallow the shiver that threatens to spill down your spine.

"I think, Dave," he says, withdrawing his hand to his lap, "That if you got shot this many times you'd be mostly _dead_."

"Yep."

"You're not dead."

"Not anymore, maybe."

And he laughs, like it's a joke, and you laugh a little too. It sounds rather hollow.

You sit up again, get off the bed. Your shirt is where you left it on the bathroom counter and it smells a little like sweat and dust when you pull it on. He's still not dressed when you come back out, just sitting on the bed and staring at the wall like it's the most interesting fucking thing to be built by man.

"You just gonna sit here all day?" you ask, leaning against the dresser on the opposite wall the beds.

He turns to look at you, raises his eyebrows a bit and shrugs. "I dunno. Don't really feel like driving tonight."

"You're not worried?"

Another shrug, and if you weren't looking for it you'd miss the way his face falls momentarily and your chest tightens. But he doesn't move or look worse for it, so instead you ask if he'd like you to order something to eat.

"Don't got a lot of money, Dave," he says carefully, because he's not sure how to tell you he's comfortable starving himself if it'll get him farther out.

You take your wallet out of your back pocket, having forgotten that you'd had it in the first place, and pull out a twenty. "I got it."

His mouth curls delicately at the corner, barely shows his teeth, and you fucking melt for it. So you call up some cheap Chinese delivery from the place advertised on the laminated card listing relevant numbers and television channels and for the twenty minutes you spend waiting you just listen to him talk. And he goes on and on about things that aren't important – one time he'd gotten lost in a mall and the family he'd been with had just _left_ without realizing, because, well, they'd had five other kids at the time and this _other_ time, he'd slashed his case worker's tires because he was tired of moving and _haha_, that had been a mess, she was so mad. He doesn't seem to mind that you don't ever say anything, that from your perch on the table you watch the way his mouth moves and the shapes his hands make while he talks.

When the knock sounds at the door you answer, successfully blocking the delivery boy's view of inside the room. Thankfully, he's about as interested in what you're doing as he is in what he's doing, so he just takes your money and slouches back down the stairs.

Bro wolfs down what you've bought like he hasn't eaten in days and you pick at whatever's in the little container you've got in front of you until he's finished. Sometime after you've pushed across your container for him to finish he asks you to take your shirt off and you want to laugh, because it's rather forward of him. Instead you make a face, raise your eyebrows and tilt your head back.

"Dave, seriously!" he groans, dropping his fork back into the carton. "I just wanna see."

"Nothin' to see," you say, crossing your arms defensively over your chest.

"You gonna tell me what happened?"

"No," and you say it as bluntly as you can because that's the end of it. He doesn't get to know, he _can't_ know. So you stand up and disappear into the bathroom again, brush your teeth with his toothbrush to get the sour aftertaste of cheap Chinese off of your teeth.

He's sprawled out on his stomach on your bed, watching something mindless on the television, when you come back out. You're pretty sure he just wants the noise for comfort, because he looks spaced, like he's trying to concentrate on something big. You sit down high on the bed next to him, next to his hips, and he jumps when you very lightly touch his shoulder.

You incline your head toward the television, "What's this?"

"Dunno," he says through a yawn, "Just liked the sound."

"It's terrible."

And he turns it off, sits upright and turns to look at you proper. "Why're you really here?"

His eyes are wide and bright and worried and you feel impossibly shitty, because you guess maybe Egbert gets to be right sometimes, there's nothing inherently wrong with this Bro besides how _young_ he is. You swallow, stare hard at the arc of his collarbone and the pale freckles scattered over it, and you can't find the right words, so you shrug, say, "Does it matter?"

He softens, somehow, his eyes lose some of the edge the worry had caused and he gives you the smallest, most thankful smile you've ever seen and you want to touch his mouth, his jaw. "Guess not."

"Why?" It's literally the only thing the wild rhythm of your heart in your throat will let you say without tripping over yourself and saying something stupid, something you can't take back.

The wall behind you suddenly becomes very interesting and you can tell he's running through a thousand different things that might get you to lay off. "I was," he pauses, runs his tongue over his lower lip, "I guess I thought you were here to – I don't know. Keep me from doing this. Maybe Renee and Luke hired you to get me to stop doing this shit."

You tense up as he slides closer, all too-long legs and warm skin and you wish very desperately he'd gotten dressed. So you don't look at him, very pointedly keep your gaze focused on the black screen of the television and try not to look at the reflection there. "I took you out to a park after dark and broke your fucking nose. And you believed that?"

"Nah, maybe not really," and he says it in your _ear_, breath hot and wet and if you didn't have such unbelievable self control you'd shiver for sure. He's sixteen but he knows what _he_ likes, what works in those really terrible pornos that are available to him, and he's not far wrong.

If that's even what he's trying to do and you latch onto that, that this is just some gross misunderstanding because he's not as physically distant as he will be, as you are, and it does nothing to stop the clenching of your gut. You angle your head away, which exposes your throat, but it's better than making it obvious how discomforting this is for you.

You're not surprised when he leans in kisses your neck, his mouth hot and insistent and largely inexperienced, and when you push him away, your hand on his shoulder, he doesn't look hurt. Instead his mouth is set in the most crooked grin you've ever seen and his eyebrows are high, eyes bright like wildfire and he digs his nails into your thigh. And you must fumble your pokerface somehow, because he laughs low and throaty as he kisses you, all teeth and pressure and teenage eagerness.

It kills you to kiss him back, your tongue sliding over his lip and dipping into his mouth and over his tongue where he tastes overwhelmingly sweet (and how'd that happen? you just had _Chinese_) and it's delicious, but you wind your fingers in his hair and feel like the worst brother to ever crawl out of a slime lab. He moans very softly as you pull away, nipping at his lip, and you run your hands over his ribs and memorize all the dips and curves of his chest.

You can't breathe for the scent of him and you think he can probably sense how fucking desperate you are for this as he pulls off your shirt, sucking and nipping and licking at your collarbones and jaw.

"Y'know this is gonna hurt?" you breathe out, dragging your nails up his thighs and down again and he hisses in a breath.

He nods and you're glad for it, kiss him hard while you work open your fly and you very slowly slide your hand up to the waistband of his boxers, hooking a finger in and tugging them down. He watches you as you step out of your jeans and he very carefully, hesitantly, grabs hold of your hips, pulls you closer and sucks at the skin over your hipbones, drags his tongue down the arc to the hair trailing down, down and he slides his tongue beneath the band of your own underwear and you bite your lip at how _close_ he is.

Your fingers curl into his hair again and it's _soft_ and you can't keep yourself from pulling at it insistently while he pushes your boxers down to your knees and then he's there but _not_. He's touching you, sucking at you, everywhere but where you _need_ him to and you're pretty sure he laughs when you jerk his head a little forcefully, growl out, "Fucking _tease_."

And then he is _there_, his mouth wet and hot and sliding over the head of your dick and down the length of it and _christ_. It's not that it feels fucking great (though it does, jesus, it does), it's the reality of it being Bro with his head between your legs and fucking _enjoying_ it that really gets to you, really coils hot in your gut and has you tilting your head back, biting your lip and swallowing throaty, encouraging noises. You're not entirely sure of the details – it's becoming increasingly difficult to focus on anything other than the _heat_ of it – but you can feel the distinct sensation of his tongue running up the vein on the bottom and again the swirl of his tongue around the head and you dig your nails into his shoulders, push him back gently.

He's laughing again, like this is just some big fucking joke, like you aren't completely fucking this timeline up and _not giving a shit_, and you push him onto the bed and climb on top of him. Your skin feels like it's burning up, like you're on fire, and you kiss his neck, his jaw, suck at his throat where his pulse is strongest while he claws into your shoulder blades and moans loudly.

You run your hand down his chest, over a nipple and he hisses, clenches his teeth, but you move past it to his dick and you curl your hand around him almost delicately. Your other hand works up to his jaw and you push two fingers into his mouth and he sucks on them, laps at the pads and up the length of them while you build a very steady rhythm with your stroking. He tries to stifle the whine that you pull out of his throat by removing your hand from his dick and you slide your fingers out his mouth so you can kiss him.

"You sure?" you ask again because you don't think he really understands how uncomfortable this is probably going to be – you've got nothing like lube on you – and he growls his frustration.

"I get it. Fuck, Dave."

"M'gonna," and you adjust your shades on your face, make sure they're on steady, while you finger his entrance.

He's tight and even though you know it shouldn't – he's _sixteen_ after all – it surprises you and you suck in a breath. You watch the erratic rise and fall of his chest, the flutter of his eyelids as you slide in a second finger and he winces, then, until you've given him some time to adjust. And then you pull your fingers out slow, push back in and the friction of it hurts him just a little because he's biting his lip, so you angle your fingers a bit and on the fourth push in you find that one little spot and he nearly stops breathing, his eyes roll back and he makes the sweetest little sound that has you kissing him, swallowing his breath like it's the fucking cure to cancer.

It doesn't take long for him to get used to the way you scissor your fingers apart and you pull them out, careful not to go to fast out of courtesy, and you let him try to catch his breath while you dig your wallet out of your discarded jeans. You take out the condom you've got stored in it (just in case, just in case) and toss your wallet on the nightstand haphazardly. He watches you roll it on, his face flushed and neck a little shiny from sweat, and as you adjust his legs, hold them in place with your shoulders he asks if you're going to take off your shades.

You don't answer, just very, very carefully push inside and you close your eyes, suck in a breath and hold it because you _knew_ he was going to be tight and hot, almost unbearably so, but it didn't prepare you for it and it's almost too much on its own. You can hear him hissing in discomfort and you run your fingers through his hair, breath out the softest "shhhh," and push deeper inside. You're careful not to move, to let him get used to it, but when he steels his jaw and looks up at you, you know he's as ready as he's going to get and you pull out until you've got just the very tip of your dick in him.

He digs his nails into your arms and you spit into your hand, wrap it around him and you start stroking before you thrust back in, and even then it's still too much, too soon and you're worried you've hurt him, but he smiles, gnaws his lip. So you keep going, angling back in so that you hit his prostate and he arches his back, moans high and throaty and it magnifies all the pleasant burnings in your guts and brain. It doesn't take you long to work out a good rhythm, one that's got Bro moaning and whining and making these delicious keening noises that reverberate in your throat when you kiss him, as well as makes your hands shake as you jerk him off and touch his face, his mouth, his jaw.

"F-_fuck_," the sound is rough, dragged out of his chest by something very primal and you feel him cum before you see it and your eyes flicker closed as you lick off the little bit that's on your fingers. He tastes bitter and thick and warm and it's predictably awful, but you fucking love it anyway, because it's _him_ and he's panting your name like it's the only thing keeping him sane.

You can't keep yourself from going faster, from thrusting into him harder, and he's making these desperate sounds and your eyes have long rolled back into your head and it's getting hard for you to breathe. You feel his hands on your face, tugging off your shades and he sighs into your mouth as he kisses you, his fingers tangled in your hair and it _is _too much.

You finish hard, dig your nails into his shoulders and sink your teeth into his neck while he cries out your name one final time.

And you just hold him there, hold him steady while you both catch your breath and you realize your sunglasses are off. You fumble around on the sheets for them; slide them on before pulling out because he can't know, especially not _now_. He laughs, breathless, when you just drop the condom on the floor, roll over and kick the blanket away.

"Too damn hot," you say, your voice shaking.

He curls into your side, presses his nose gingerly into your neck and breathes slowly in, out. You let him, brush your fingers through his hair absently until he falls asleep and you think about how fucking badly you ruined this.


	9. Chapter 9

Again, he's awake before you, already showered and smelling heavily of cheap bar soap. He's dripping cold water onto your skin and it makes you realize how sticky you feel, like your whole body is coated with the thinnest layer of molasses and you feel disgusting. When he kisses you to complete awareness you feel even worse, though that doesn't stop your fingers from threading through his wet hair or your tongue from sliding into his mouth while you watch his eyes flutter closed.

You feel very hopeless, very sick and distinctly _bad_, but you don't stop giving him the softest, slowest kisses you can because if he remembers this, you don't want him to think that you don't care. You do, probably more than you should, and you feel it burn world-bright inside your chest – in the sunken place where you used to think your heart was – as a raw, open wound. He's the one who stops, who breaks away with a guilty smile to get dressed and you slink off to the bathroom to clean away all the physical evidence of your depravity that clings to you like a second skin.

Your neck and collar are marked by the spotted red-purple swelter of a bruise that speaks of what you've done and you wince, because you're afraid to look at him, look at what _you _left. You keep the water almost as hot as it will go, let it burn over your skin and work the knots out of your back and the steam has you breathing thin. You pull on your jeans and shirt, adjust your shades, and walk back out holding Bro's hat and sunglasses.

He's looking at something and doesn't notice you, his shoulders hunched forward and head low. So you move quietly, quickly over and slide the hat onto his head, pull his shades onto his eyes and you see it, you see your id in his hands and suddenly your mouth feels impossibly dry, stuffed with cotton. There's nothing you can think to say to turn this around, make it a joke or a misunderstanding because there it is, clear as fucking crystal, and you're trying not to panic and jump back to the present where you won't have to deal with the inevitability of _this_. But you don't, you just lean back and away and stare very hard at the wall as though it's the one who's going to answer for it. There's some intangible weight crushing down on your shoulders, compacting your ribs and you wish the air wasn't so stale so that you could breathe.

"I don't get it," he says eventually and his voice is too flat, sits wrong on your ears.

And you don't have much courage for this, there's no fucked-up hybrid of bravery and complacency with what you know _has_ to happen to push you through, so you don't say anything. You just stay quiet and suck on your teeth while he tries to rationalize what he's seeing, how he can be looking at something that won't be issued for another eighteen years or better or why it's got your face and name on it like it belongs to you when you are very clearly here _now_, with him. You keep your face straight and your breathing even and smooth.

He turns to you, your wallet discarded next to him on the bed, and he holds up the card to compare it against your face. "If it's fake," he says and even though he's got his shades on you can tell he's watching you for any kind of reaction, "S'pretty convincing."

You shrug, careful not to move your hands because you're positive they'd shake just that infinitesimal amount and you can't break face now, not when you stand so much to lose. You can't stand to watch him as his mouth curls and he turns the id over and over, looking for a flaw that doesn't exist, so instead you stare at your reflection in his sunglasses and you look perfectly calm. Then he sets it down, scoots closer and you hold your breath while he reaches up, pulls off your shades.

And nothing. You can't tell if he's angry or disappointed and – you won't say it scares you, because it's something much harder to name than that – it makes your heart run rapid in your chest. You're sure your pokerface is slipping, that your eyes are giving away too much, but there's nothing you can do about it. You fucked up – him and this and you and panic swells in your throat.

"Oh," is all he says and it feels like all the air is being pulled out your lungs and you smile, very weakly.

"Yeah."

He opens his mouth to say something, thinks better of it and instead steels his shoulders, tilts his chin up. "Get out."

"I –"

"Dave," his voice is hard and unyielding and it reminds you of the way he'll talk to you later, when he's mad, "Just _go_."

You do, you stand up and leave without saying anything and you can feel him watching you, boring a hole in your shoulders, as you close the door behind you. You're down the stairs and you want to hit something, break something, but there's nothing you can get your hands on. The sun stings your skin through your shirt and a breeze pulls up lean billows of dust around your feet. You feel vaguely sick.

But you have to do something, because you were here partly to protect him, keep him safe and not alone. He will hate you now no matter what you do, so as you drop two quarters into the pay phone you can pretend that he'll understand _this_, of all your actions, the best. You call the police first; tell them about the stolen truck and Bro without letting them know of your involvement. (What could they do to you, anyway?) Then you dial the operator to patch you through to Renee.

"This is Renee," her voice sounds far away and maybe worried, you can't tell over the blood rushing through your ears.

"Hey," you say, "This is Dave."

"Oh, hello dear. I don't suppose you've heard anything from Broderick?"

"Yeah," and you tell her where he is and that you went with him to make sure he'd be okay. You tell her how you helped him steal the truck and sneak out and she's very quiet the whole time. "Called the police."

She says okay, thanks you for letting her know and hangs up. You hang up the phone and the walk to the lobby feels like it takes too long, but the coffee you get there is strong and you sip at it while you wait on a curb outside for the police to show up.

Bro doesn't leave and you're not sure why, maybe he's quit, maybe he knows that you sold him out. Time drags and your legs go numb from sitting on the curb so long, but you can't leave, you have to make sure he'll be alright.

When the cops show up you skirt around the building, perch atop a low wall and watch as an officer climbs the stairs and knocks on the door as another checks the license plate on the truck. He walks out easy, like it's nothing at all and your blood runs cold when you see he's got your shades hooked over his collar. You left everything in the room.

And you can't ask for it back, can't get involved. Still he sees you and you can't see his eyes but you know he's looking right at you, rooting you to the spot and you feel something pull at your gut and you can't, you can't go back right now. Not while he's watching and time swallows you whole.

You know where you are now (and it really does feel like now, like the present) and you fall back into the fine playground sand. You're at the park, the one you visited with Bro over twenty years ago and broke his nose.

It occurs to you that you can go back to before you first met him and just stop yourself from getting involved, but something tells you that you won't be able to even if you tried. Of course you try anyway, try to pull at the once obvious pockets of malleable time that would let you go back, but it doesn't work and afterward you just feel stupid.

You pull your phone out of your pocket, thankful that you didn't leave it, and you send Bro a text to come pick you up because you have no idea where you are in relation to the motel. You don't wait for him to text you back before you open the Pesterchum app on your phone and unblock your friends.

- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering gardenGnostic [GG] -

TG: hey  
>TG: i cant time travel anymore<br>GG: oh nooooo! D:  
>TG: yeah and i think i ruined everything jade and i really mean everything this time<br>TG: not exaggerating at all  
>GG: dave i dont think youd be allowed to ruin everything...<br>GG: if that makes sense  
>TG: no im pretty sure that shits about to get seventeen different kinds of fucked up nasty in my house<br>TG: is how bad i screwed myself  
>GG: :(<br>GG: just wait it out dave!  
>TG: no choice<br>TG: bros here  
>GG: argh...<p>

- turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering gardenGnostic [GG] -

Bro's throwing something into the backseat as you open the door and he raises his eyebrows a little when he sees you without your shades.

"Lost 'em," you say, careful not to look at his face.

"D'you want a new pair? I can stop somewhere."

"It's fine."

"'Kay."

You're more relieved than you can express that he doesn't mention the hickey on your neck, but you're worried, too, because you don't know if he remembers what it's from or if he's just that disinterested in you.

You turn in the seat uncomfortably to look at the shoebox in the backseat. "What's in the box?"

"Nothin'," he says and of course it's something, because his fingers curl into the steering wheel a little bit harder and you're reminded of his younger self. "Just somethin' they kept locked up for me. No reason to come up here until now – been rotting in a safety deposit box the whole time."

You don't say anything back, don't even have anything you _want_to say until he drives past the motel you'd been staying at for the funeral. "Thought it was for two days."

"It was. You've been gone a day."

You _hmm_, because you don't know what to say to that without admitting what you were doing. You've never been good at straight talking your way through a lie, not with Bro, so you don't even bother. And you're content to just not say anything, to just watch the landscape through the window and pretend like you can't smell him and that you're enjoying it.

But then he pulls over and is pulling you out of the car, telling you that you get to drive because he's got a headache. You comply wordlessly and he watches the way you walk like he's grading you on your performance.

An hour into the road your phone vibrates loud against your thigh and you arch your back, push your hips up to dig it out of your pocket, keeping one hand casually on the wheel. It's Jade again, wanting to talk to you and you're about to respond, moving your arms so that your wrists have the wheel mostly centered while keeping your hands free, but Bro snatches it out of your grip with a smirk.

"Shit's not safe, man," he tells you, smug sounding and fucking stupidly condescending because you've seen him work the internet while he's driving.

"Don't answer it," you say, teeth ground together because he's going to. You know he's going to.

You can hear him typing away on the touchscreen and it's a minute or two before he drops your phone back in your lap. He stretches out as much as the cramped space will let him, making a show of it with a throaty moan, and pulls the brim of his hat lower over his already hidden eyes.

He's going to fucking fall asleep while you're driving and you don't know why he's skirting the issue, but he is. You can taste the anxiety building up in your gut and by the time you finally have to stop for gas, your hands are shaking. The rest of the drive isn't much better.


	10. Chapter 10

The brownstone looms impressively shitty against the clear sky as you pull into the assigned parking space. You don't wake Bro up; instead you pop the trunk and reach into the backseat for the shoebox. You take both suitcases and the rumpled dry cleaning bag up the stairs and deposit them on the futon for Bro to deal with later. The shoebox you set carefully on the table so that you don't have to hear its contents rattle like so much temptation.

You disappear into your room, pulling out your phone to find the Pesterchum window still open with Jade's conversation on it. It doesn't look like Bro said a whole lot incriminating to her but still, curiosity gnaws at you and you blow up the window to fill the screen.

- gardenGnostic [GG] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] -

GG: dave!  
>GG: i wanted to ask what happened but you ran away before i could :(<br>TG: Dave is busy driving.  
>TG: so obvs he cant talk.<br>GG: sooooo you must be mr daves bro :O  
>TG: yeah k.<br>TG: just Bro though the mr sounds too fucking old.  
>TG: btw what did you wanna ask.<br>GG: ummm i dunno…  
>TG: sure you do.<br>TG: look im not gonna tell Dave and probs i know what you wanna know.  
>GG: welllll….<br>GG: okay! :)  
>GG: dave said he ruined everything?<br>TG: oh.  
>TG: i dunno.<br>GG: :(  
>TG: i mean i know hes been doing the time travel thing a lot lately so maybe he didnt do something.<br>TG: not a fucking physicist chica i have no idea.  
>GG: he was visiting you though<br>TG: k.  
>GG: so maybe you can remember something he did that was wrong!<br>TG: nothing.  
>TG: i guess he did call the po and that blew.<br>GG: um...  
>TG: the police.<br>GG: the police? :O  
>TG: yeah like with guns and uniforms and aviators.<br>TG: fucking nice aviators too.  
>GG: okay...<br>TG: tbh Daves probs just overreacting.  
>TG: hes a srs drama queen but hell be fine.<br>GG: if youre sure  
>TG: k is that it.<br>GG: yes thank you! :)  
>TG: sure.<p>

- gardenGnostic [GG] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] -

You close the app and toss your phone to your bed. You're glad that he didn't mention anything else, at least, because the last thing you want is Rose finding out and filling notebooks with notes and penning bestsellers based on your "_degrading psyche_".

The door in the living room slams open and you sink back onto your bed as you listen to Bro bitch and moan and push your suitcase against your door. "Not your fucking maid," he growls through the door and you're surprised he's so angry, all you did was leave him in the car (not for very long either, he'd've been _fine_).

He moves off from the door and you're tempted to go look in the shoebox, just to see what was so important that he had them keep it for him. You've got a feeling you know what it is, but you want to make sure he sees you do it, sees that you're not as afraid of what you did as you were before. You can handle this if he can handle this – and he has, he is, because he raised you regardless what you did and he's let you stay after your obligation to the universe was settled.

So you leave your room quietly, leaving your door cracked in case you need to abscond, and you can see his shadow in the kitchen, hear him moving things around like he's actually going to clean something. You settle into the corner of the futon, the bar of the armrest digging into your ribs from the way you're positioned, and you turn the television on to make it look like you've a less suspicious purpose being out.

"Thanks for getting me up, asshole," he says and you lean forward so that he can't use you as leverage for his vault over the back of the couch.

You shrug and don't say anything when he steals the remote from you, changes it over to some terrible Lifetime movie. You're not watching the screen and you don't think he is either, but the shades block you from being able to tell with any real certainty. Once or twice his adam's apple dips and you think he's going to say something, but he never does and it makes your hands itch.

Eventually, you tilt up your head in gesture towards to the shoebox on the table, say, "What's in it?"

He does look at you, then, makes it obvious by letting his shades slip a little down his nose so that the outlandish color of his eyes burns bright against the black, "Who the fuck cares?" he turns away, settles his shoulders into the back of the couch and balances his heels against the table, "Open it, if you're so damn curious."

You are. You lean forward and pull the box into your lap, flip off the top and you'd laugh if it didn't make your heart sink into your guts. You're very quiet as you take your wallet, moth-eaten and a little ragged now, and inside you see your id is tucked very carefully into the proper slot. Your money (really, the money Bro had given you after you'd asked) is gone, but you didn't really expect it to still be there. Your shades are in the box, too, the lenses still scratch-free even if there's a thin layer of dust clinging to the surface. You don't take them out and you set your wallet back inside before putting it back on the table.

Bro isn't paying any attention and his fingers drum out some new rhythm against his knee while he watches some OxyClean commercial. You don't want to be out here anymore, not unless he's going to react and he seems very keen to _not_.

But he grabs your wrist as you stand, tugs you back into the futon insistently even though he still doesn't appear to be looking at you. He's still got your wrist while he leans forward to take your shades out of the box. He shifts closer to you, leans forward so that you feel trapped by the broad expanse of his shoulders and you should be uncomfortable, but you're not anything close to it and your heart has clawed its way back to your throat.

You're positive he sees the way your face colors because his mouth curves into the most self-satisfied smirk you've ever seen and he slides your shades over your eyes. And you think that's it, that he's going to back off but he presses a finger to the hickey on your neck, pretends to be disappointed.

"Expected better of you, Dave," he purrs – and that's what it is, too, his voice rolling in his throat and you're not sure if he's giving you shit or trying to let you know he's not going to hate you _now_ after all this time or some fucked up combination of both. "Know I've taught you how to hide these better."

Your pulse pounds hot and hard in your ears and you dig your nails into your jeans to keep you from focusing on the way he smells and the warmth spilling off his body. "Busy night. Forgot," you keep it short because you're sure you'll lose your cool if you say too much.

He _hmm_s and goes back to his original position, feet kicked up on the table and arm thrown over the back of the futon. "Whatever you say, man."

You're silent for a long time; try to swallow the thick feeling in your mouth.

"Got nothing to say?" and you're surprised at how accusatory you sound, but you set your jaw and stare defiantly – not that he can see – at him.

Bro raises his eyebrows, tilts his head. "About what, Dave?"

"You know what."

He's close again and you lean back against the arm so that you don't touch, he balances over you with his hands on digging into the futon on either side of your shoulder. When he talks it's like he's young again, his teeth bared and voice sharp, "No, Dave, I don't. Maybe you could fill me in."

His breath washes over your face and it smells sweet, warm and you ignore the urge to taste it on his mouth. You think maybe you made a mistake, that maybe he doesn't remember because that Bro wasn't _him_ and you dig your teeth into the inside of your lip.

You can hear the scratch of his nails against the fabric as he digs his fingers in deeper and you imagine his knuckles white beneath the shiny leather of his gloves. "C'mon, Dave," he's angry and you can't tell why, can't pin down the reason and then his hand is on your shoulder, digging into it and it stings, "Fill me in."

"When I left, you know where I was."

He laughs, low and brittle, and when his sunglasses slide down his nose he doesn't bother pushing them back up. Even without the shades, though, his eyes are completely unreadable and it worries you in a way that has your guts knotting up and your breath coming in sharp.

"Of course I know," he says quietly, "But it was twenty-two years ago, man. Shit doesn't matter to anybody anymore."

You think he sounds like he believes it, like he's rationalized this away years ago (and he had to, didn't he?), but under that you can tell his voice is just inches away from shaking. And it's a chance, a very wild chance that might end with your lip split and eyes blackened, but you take it.

"Not for me," you breathe out, cool and even and the epitome of fucking brash confidence, "I'd bet it was about a day and a half, at most."

He's quiet, like he's thinking and you watch as his eyes skirt over your mouth, your jaw, and he swears, says, "No, guess it wasn't."

But he pushes away, sets his shades right on his face and stalks off to his room.

You watch him go, stress outlined clear in the tightness of his shoulders, and you're sure that he's more susceptible to it than you thought. If you wanted, you're sure you could make this happen.


	11. Chapter 11

He's a ghost the next day. The car's gone from the space and one of his credit cards is on the kitchen table without a note. Which is wrong, because you've been insufferable your whole life and he wouldn't just do this (no matter what your friends might sometimes say, there's a singular breed of devotion between you two), and he wouldn't leave over something like this. Not when he's feigned indifference – however poorly – because he's too proud to admit losing like this.

You call Rose. She's tired sounding when she answers but you don't feel guilty.

"Hey."

"Dave?"

She ends up telling you to just wait it out, that once whatever's eating him dies out he'll come back and "really, Dave, what's the problem exactly? Surely someone of your social preferences isn't perturbed by a couple days of privacy."

She'd have kept up on that thread, too, if you hadn't cut her off with "I fucked him." It quiets her and you can imagine her leaning onto a desk, lips pursed and her eyes cold as she works it over, dissects it in her mess of a brain. You can hear somebody speaking in the background, quiet and polite though insistent.

Offhand and casual, you say, "Is tha—"

"Hush, Dave," she interrupts and her voice is cold, closed off.

It's not really a vein you think worth pursuing – if she wants to keep alien ladies in her home than whatever, man, John collected them like stray kittens too – so you idle time remixing soundbytes on your computer and transferring them to a disc you'll convert to something usable later. On the other end you can hear the faintest scratching of a pen (a fountain pen, you bet, because that's dramatic and deep) and you roll your eyes, chew on your knuckle.

Too much time passes and you say, "What the fuck are you even doing, Lalonde?"

"Taking notes, forming an opinion based on personal observations and some of your past confessions."

"Fuck you," your voice is easy but sharp, "I don't need a diagnosis."  
>"Then why'd you call?" she sounds amused, like she expected your reaction and, knowing her, she probably <em>did<em>.

You shrug before you remember you're on the phone, but she seems to get the idea anyway.

"Listen, Dave," she starts slow but heavy, all clinical precision and professionalism, "If you're after my advice, then I'm afraid you'll have to search other venues."

"You've given me plenty of unwanted wisdom before, practically been a fucking fountainhead of irrelevant bullshit. What the fuck's so different now?"

"As you may or may not understand, I am ever more wary of offering advice to a friend who is interested in pursuing an… intimate relationship with his _dadbro_ – especially when taking the circumstances surrounding the _discovery_ of this attraction into account."

It doesn't matter that you didn't tell her it was the younger one you fucked, she's clever enough to have figured that out on her own. "That's it? You won't help because we're _related_ and you think I've been..." you struggle to find the word.

"Conditioned, maybe," she offers.

"Sure, why the hell not."

"He's functioned as your _father_, Dave, the power dynamic here is so off-level that there's no conceivable way that I can offer you advice that would allow it to be healthy."

"He's been my _brother_, Lalonde. Never pretended to be anything else, fuck what the genetics say."

"You're being intentionally difficult," she intakes a sharp breath and you know she's about to start.

And you don't care to listen to her analyze the situation, or do it yourself. It's a thing you want, very badly and on a visceral level, and it doesn't matter to you why you want it. You hang up while she's still talking with the confidence that she'll be too indignant to call back.

You consider texting Bro directly, but you know if he's serious about staying away for a while he won't get back to you. He shouldn't be that hard to find, if you put forth even the barest amount of effort but your head is pounding and you can feel pressure build behind your eyes. He'll come back to you, you're sure of that, but not knowing when settles wrong on your shoulders.

The day drags on your inaction, indecision tearing up your thoughts and you've been holding the xbox controller limply for maybe three hours, just staring at the screen like the game will play itself. It's almost five when Bro sends you a text with the name of a club he frequently DJs for and a time. It's not clear to you what he means by it but if he's there, you'll go.

* * *

><p>You arrive around eight and a talkative man you can only assume is the proprietor pulls you aside, guiding you to the back door with his hand on your back like you've been bros your whole life.<p>

"Are you Dave?" he asks and for all the bullshit you believe describing people as animals is, this man looks like a fox you once saw dead on the side of the road (Bro had pulled over and very, very begrudgingly let you pull out its teeth, kept them for you in a water bottle he filled with peroxide at a gas station until you could take them home).

You nod and he slides his hand from your back to your arm, where he squeezes very hard.

"Good, good. Look," and his voice gets low, conspiratory, "Your brother may have recommended you but if you fuck this up, you're getting less than half what I originally offered. So don't fuck it up."

"He's not here?" your voice is smooth but you can feel the rough patch in your throat that would have you speaking brittle, harsh. You don't care about the money, it's a transient pleasure at best, but you don't tell him that.

"Fuck no. He bailed – some "personal emergency" crap – but offered you to replace him. If it wasn't such short notice we wouldn't have taken you."

You've the presence of mind to be offended, especially since you're at the very _least_ on par with Bro as far as skill goes, but he's already flit away, suddenly all smiles and drinks on the house for nervous looking women he let in early. You feel trapped, locked into something you don't want to do despite knowing you could tear this fucking place down if you went up and even put forth the barest amount of effort.

When you walk up behind the turntable setup there's a bag filled with Bro's usual gear and you're grateful for it as you pull out, put on and prepare what you're familiar with. There's nothing to really signify that he did this out of concern for your performance, that he didn't just forget his shit here or drop it off preemptively, but you feel better, more confident believing he did.

You open up strong, really just finding your rhythm before the club is officially open, and as the night drags on you don't have to think about what to throw on and how to transition anymore. You're barely paying any attention because it's instinct, your hands moving on solid intuition alone and, predictably, the people in the club fucking love it. It doesn't bother you that after the first hour most of them were too shit-faced to appreciate it, because your head feels lighter and the pressure is gone from behind your eyes. The owner catches you on the way out, palms a card with his number on it into your hand ("You're fucking good, kid. When you're looking to get serious give me a call and we'll work something in.") and pulls an envelope from his jacket. You take it; stuff it into your pocket because it really means jackshit to you.

"Did he say where he was staying?" you ask, even though you know there's no way your brother would ever tell a tool like this anything important.

"Shit no, didn't ask either," he leaves, then, curt and quick.

You're disappointed as you walk home. A half mile out a very battered looking car pulls up beside you, rolls its windows down and smoke leaks out. You recognize the driver as one of Bro's friends and when he tells you to get in, crushing his cigarette against the dash, you do.

"Bro paid me to pick you up," he says by way of explanation, "Fucking mother hen, man. You're what? Twenty?"

You nod and he just says "shit."

"Where's he at?"

"Shit, lemme write this down," and when he pulls up to your apartment he scribbles an address down on a ripped napkin, "But don't go 'round at night."

You thank him and he shrugs, lights another smoke before speeding out.

* * *

><p>The address is within walking distance and you go in the high afternoon. It's hot and the soles of your shoes are too thin and the sidewalk burns uncomfortably.<p>

The neighborhood is ratty looking, all chain-link fences with rusted bottoms curling up or broken and lean stray-looking dogs panting underneath water stained patio decks. There's a particularly big one – shaggy and dark mud brown with a broad nose and teeth hooked over its jowls – that growls at you half-heartedly as you climb the steps up the patio. The deck is littered with spent cigarettes and ash and there's a smoke-filled jar with a bee arcing slow dying circles trapped underneath it. You smell the cheap weed before the door even opens.

Bro answers with the most shit-eating grin you've ever seen on his face and he's too busy yelling a string of obscenities at the man sprawled half-awake on the couch, with what you assume is a blunt balanced carefully between his fingers, to notice that it's you. When he finally does, he straightens up, shoulders and spine rigid and he closes the door quickly as he steps onto the deck.

He sits on the railing and the wood creaks under his weight. He takes his hat off, fans his neck with it. "Heard it went good last night. Blew it the fuck up," he says, almost conversational.

"Why the hell did you set it up?" you're fully aware of the way your voice is open, hot and angry but you don't have the wherewithal to give a shit.

"Look," and his voice takes on that condescending tone that tells you you're about to get a lecture and you cut him off before he even gets a chance to really dig into it.

"Don't wanna hear some bullshit excuse. If you're trying to kick me out, fuck you, but you're not. You're just being a dick."

He slouches forward, shrugs, "Time you did your own thing, Dave. S'just gonna get cramped if you hang around forever."

"That's not it," you say, and you watch as he takes off his shades, presses his palms into his eyes.

"No. But so what? You gonna try to push this? Ignore how incredibly fucked up it is – gonna ask me to ignore that?"

You lick your lips, watch his face carefully. "Doesn't matter," you say, "if you ignore it or not. You want to. I'm not an idiot."

"You sure? Think _real_ hard, Dave – big fucking picture time – because seems like you're thinkin' this through with your dick as the house speaker. Go find some stringy blonde to fuck, man," and he's almost desperate behind the cool baritone of his voice, you can feel it even if it's not showing, "Get it out of your system or whatever. But _this_, this isn't what you want. I can guaran-fucking-tee you that."

He stares you down and you don't balk, keep your face straight and it's _him_ who looks away first. And he sucks in a breath, pulls his hat back on and tilts his head back, exposes the column of his throat and breathes deep. When he finally looks at you again, his eyes are distant but raw with something you can't place. "Fine, Dave. Give it a shot but when it catches up – and it will – I'm gone, you're gone. Can't blame nobody but yourself."

He disappears inside and a pervasive warmth pools in your skull, leaks down to your chest and you swallow the knot in your throat.

You barely notice the heat as you walk home, though you're distinctly aware of the sensation of being hot.

* * *

><p>You're just out of the shower when Bro comes home, slamming the door behind him to let you know and you lock the bathroom door as a precaution. You've got a feeling he's mad, bent up about you chasing this (regardless the fact that he wants it, you, too) and you don't really feel like dealing with him while he works out his hang-ups. You zip your jeans and exit to the hallway, the hair on the back of your neck standing on end before you even get to your door.<p>

It's quiet, the air still and dead and lightning cracks along your nerves you're so alert. Quick and silent, keeping close to the wall, you duck into your room, lock the door futilely and tug on the first shirt you see. It smells like stale sweat and burnt hair, but it's more for comfort than anything, cutting off the stalked feeling creeping up your spine and making your fingers twitch.

The lock rattles and you're out the window, scaling the fire escape without regard to the way it clatters and shakes with loud metallic bangs. You look back briefly; stop when you don't seem him following you. You won't go back down, not yet, but you won't go any higher – not when it's just as likely he'll cut you off on the roof. The metal rail burns your skin as you lean against it, a heavy wind pushing the thick city smell of smog and dirt and tar past your nose.

High above you the fire escape quakes and you're bolting down again, not bothering to check if it's him or not before sliding through your window and you swear, loud and rancorous, when Bro snags your wrists, pins you to the wall.

"What the fuck was that?" you bark, and you'd forgotten how much larger he was than you, not so much in height (though he's got a couple inches, still) but in bulk, his shoulders and chest broader and leaner and you feel small.

"Wind hits harder high up," he says, close enough for you to bask in the warmth pouring like liquid gold off his body.

You bite your tongue to keep from being snide because he knows what you meant and you'd look stupid correcting him. He lets go of your wrists, and he'd leave (what was the point then, you can't tell) if you didn't catch him, dig your nails into his upper arm and, jesus, the muscle there contracts and you suddenly feel outmatched.

And you are, because he's slamming you hard into the wall and your skull slams back, makes this cracking noise that lights up white hot starbursts behind your eyelids and knocks off your shades, leaves your ears ringing. He says something you can't hear but you think the cadence in his voice must be concern, because he slides his hand behind your head and trawls his fingers through your hair to check for blood. But it must be okay, because he pushes you back again and his hands bite into your arms to hold you still.

Your head is still swimming but the stars are gone from your vision and when you get a good look at him you know he's watching you for signs of anything serious. When your head finally settles and the dizziness drops out of you, he kisses you. All teeth and force and control and deeper than the pleasure it lights up all over, it feels artificial. So you try to pull up the hunger for it you know he has, sink your teeth into his lower lip and draw his tongue into your mouth.

The feeling that he's indulging you sinks to the forefront of your brain, sounds loud even as you angle your head back to give him better access to your throat where he crawls wet, sharp kisses up the line of your artery. You feel him lap at the skin he pulls up between his teeth, soothing each bite as he administers it and if he weren't still holding your arms in place you'd touch him in kind, encourage him and anchor yourself to the situation.

But he is, doesn't even move them when he grinds his hips against yours and it's not much, but it has you raising your own a little urgently and you hold your breath when he slides a hand down the front of your jeans, rubs his palm against your erection. With your free arm you grab hold of the back of his neck, tangle your fingers in the hair curled there and pull him into an open-mouthed kiss that lacks any kind of finesse on your part for the hunger in your blood. He keeps it smooth, his tongue in your mouth and over the back of your teeth and against yours, and he's got your pants undone, his hand finds your dick and his fingers slide up along the vein, over the head before he wraps properly around it and pulls once, twice and you moan from the feral place in your guts.

You're working open his pants, or would be if you weren't stuck on trying to loosen his belt with one hand and likewise distracted by the confident, heavy strokes he works you with. He releases your other arm to tug your pants down proper while you finally get his belt, his jeans open and he feels heavy and thick in your hand. Your thumb grazes the swollen head, smears the precum over it and you bring your hand to your mouth, suck it off your thumb (it's bittersweet and has the strangest tang that has you rolling your eyes back as you close them) and his breath hitches once before he's stoic again.

You try to pull a noise out of him, make him mirror the needy sounds you're making, by dropping your hand back to his dick and starting an insistent rhythm to your stroking, broken only to spit in your hand to get it slick and warm but he stays stubbornly quiet. He moves his hand from your cock to your hip, digs his nail into the bone and runs his other hand down the back of your let him go, disengage yourself to get off your chucks, out of your pants and he's gone, just for the moment, returns with what you assume is lube and a condom that he sets on the bookshelf to your left.

Then he's grabbing hold of your hips, hiking your legs over his waist and you hook them together, back pressed uncomfortably to the wall for balance while he slicks his fingers with sweet smelling gel. You can't lean forward to kiss him and he keeps it weirdly impersonal, like you're a stranger, some one-off fuck he won't call in the morning, as he slides one digit inside you, again and again until he finds your prostate and has you clawing at the wall, choking out "_more, more_." He complies, pushes a second in and then a third before you're ready but, _shit_, you don't care, just press your head back to the wall and watch his face through half-lidded eyes.

Your hand finds his dick again and you awkwardly work your hand around yours, too. Your fingers are long enough but your grip is weak, your hand shaking from the feel of him _there_, pushing in and hooking up and everything is too hot, too bright. Bro has to thrust into it to get a rise from it but it's good, the feeling pools in your groin and you moan, thin and breathy, when he rakes his nails down the outside of your thigh, leaving thin, stinging red trails in his wake.

He stops, removes his fingers and reaches for the condom, tears it open with his teeth and you're sure he's watching the wall over your shoulder as he rolls it on. You'd say something, dig your fingers into his hair and take off that fucking hat and demand with your teeth and nails that he acknowledge you, but he's got your hips again, lifts you up and he's holding his breath as he very slowly, carefully lowers you back down, onto him and you can't speak for the feel of that. Your eyes droop closed, your lips parted as you pant and shiny wet because you can't keep your tongue off them they're so dry. When he's in fully, and you know this because it's all you can feel, heavy and thick and hot and deep and so much, he braces with one hand against the wall, leans in close and his nose is right next to your ear, so when you focus (and you do, because you need to know this is for him what it is for you) on it you can hear the erratic and labored shifts of his breathing.

His other hand is back on your dick, stroking you in counter with his thrusting and your hands crawl underneath his shirt, up his back and you curl your fingers around his shoulder blades to keep him where you can taste his sweat in the air. He rolls his hips a particular way and that's _it_, you drag your nails down the length of his spine and moan, long and rough, to let him know and he changes the way he moves into you, jerks you faster and you're nearly there, your teeth sunken into your lip and he stops everything – to your extreme displeasure – until your breathing is a little more even, a little less ragged. And then he starts again, harder, faster this time and you're aware that you're saying something, but you can't catch the words, can't feel them as anything except vibrations in your mouth, and eventually he kisses you to get you to shut up.

You've long since stopped paying attention to the noises boiling out of your throat, but he hasn't, and when he thinks they've again gotten too high, too eager, he finishes you off firm, careful not to get any on his hand as it spills over your shirt. You can't breathe even though you're sucking down air, you feel displaced, out of your body because you're so warm, so light and you're only distantly aware of Bro cumming, though you should feel it deep inside you.

He pulls out and is very careful about unhooking your legs and setting you right, but he leaves almost immediately, disappears while your eyes are closed and you're leaning heavy on your shoulders against the wall and trying to regain control of your senses, repossess your body. You're aware that he's gone before you open your eyes but you pretend he's there until you do, and the disappointment you feel slithers up, swallows all the soft, soothing afterglow soaking just beneath your skin. You feel cold.


	12. Chapter 12

Despite your best efforts, Bro manages to maintain a heavy degree of impersonality with you – even when you're crushed beneath him and the keening tremor of your voice pathetically begs him to acknowledge you. It's aggravating, the worst and most embarrassing kind of uncool because it means, somehow, that he is guarding himself from _you_. As if, given the chance, you'd turn this back on him, treat it as a one-up on the man who's bested you for years and you're not sure whether to laugh or just feel _bad_.

Because of it, though, he talks to you less and less, stays out later and comes home with the sour smell of sweat and alcohol sticking to his skin. Sometimes you stay up until he swaggers in and you'll while the time by playing his xbox (and saving over his files) or bullshitting with John or Rose or Jade (usually Rose, interested as she is in your present affair). Usually, though, you just pass out on the futon, daring him to confrontation with half-empty beer cans on the table or floor and he must've stopped giving a shit about what you do because he never says anything and when you wake up they're always cleaned up.

Something you won't call fear pools underneath the arc of your ribcage and it aches dully when you consider the possibility. Your brother is a class-A asshole, but he's not so callous as to string you up by your nerves like this. Maybe to other people, but never you – strangers are fair game and easy and you're not them.

Even at his worst, even after he'd blackened your eye and your ribs had cracked from the force of being slammed down on the hot concrete stretch of the roof, he'd taken you in for care. The next time he lured you to the roof for strife, you knew he was holding back, letting you win by way of apology. (He stopped toning it down when a week later you'd managed to fracture his jaw.) You might break each other's bones, kick and bite with glinting steel teeth and, sometimes, draw blood but it was - in a lot of ways still is - always just the two of you and he can't have forgotten _that_.

You're sure of it, in the same way you're sure Cal is still locked up in a trunk, buried underneath mountains of old clothes in Bro's closet – which is to say, you're not altogether sure at all.

So when he comes home tonight, hanging onto the door like it's the only thing holding him to the earth, you're awake. You've spent the past hour in your head, turning over the possibility of just leaving, saving yourself the trouble but then he pulls you out of it when he comes home, sinks into the futon next to you and you know you can't. You're not naïve, there's no inextricable link between you two, but you undoubtedly feel warm sappy things for him that you'd miss. Nobody will ever ask you, but if you had to explain you'd probably describe it as a very pressing need to breathe your brother's air.

So even though you'd previously promised yourself – and have promised yourself every morning since you realized what was happening – you wouldn't let it carry on until he cowboy'd up, realized that you weren't going to (and it's the weirdest, lamest thing to admit) _hurt _him, when he pulls you into his lap you let him. When he unzips your jeans while simultaneously working his own open, you melt into his heat; let your weight go slack so he has to hold you up by the shoulder. And when he finally holds you both together, his grip warm and with just the right amount of firmness, you wind your hands useless into his shirt.

* * *

><p>Over breakfast, through a mouthful of southern hash browns you ask him to get you work. He doesn't question it though you can see his eyebrows rise and he cracks the newspaper as he turns the page and grunts.<p>

When he slams his coffee mug on the table, you refill it automatically and he says, "See what I can do."

And it's a lot, apparently, because he comes home earlier than usual and unfolds a receipt with times and locations scribbled on it. You take it from him and you're glad for the distraction three nights of entertaining shitfaced crowds will provide you.

He changes the television to some Disney channel original movie that ends in chaste make-outs and your skin crawls, burns from the anticipation of what you know is coming. So when it doesn't, when he spends the whole time facing away from you, still but for the predictable climb and fall of his chest, it worries you. Your nerves twist into knots and as you slink off to your room you feel very distinctly that you're failing some kind of test.

Your room is too hot, sticky with still air, and when you check the vent nothing is being pushed through. Even at night you know it'll hit beyond ninety degrees and you'll wake up with a fine layer of sweat on your face and neck and your pride is certainly not worth it.

You press your back to your door, listening for the television to go silent. There's sweat beading on your forehead, the back of your neck by the time you finally decide to just _fuck it_. You open the door quietly, pad to the hall and of course Bro's still there, taking small sips from a bottle of cheap whiskey.

"Vent's broke in my room," you say, sitting so that you can't see him.

"S'fine in mine," he tells you with a careful gesture of the bottle, "I'll stay out."

"Your room is creepy as fuck, no way."

And he laughs, short and tight but you can see his teeth, "They're just fuckin' puppets, man. Would y'like me to pack 'em all up, hide 'em under the bed? S'the coldest room in the apartment and the office ain't open tomorrow."

"Fuck off."

"Just tryin' t'help."

He's not, he's being a dick and while he might have eventually relented on hiding the worst of them, he's by no means completely removed their presence from his room and they make you itch.

"Let me have the futon."

"Gonna be up for awhile."

You swallow a frustrated noise and straighten your shoulders. _This_ is the most conversation you've had in days and it's stupid, contrived and altogether useless. You know he can spend hours doing nothing, just breathing and keeping perfectly still and it's always unnerving, even if you can now predict the majority of his movements.

And time drags. Eventually he puts the whiskey away and turns the tv off. He knocks off his hat when he runs his hands through his hair and he stretches, arches his back and the crack you hear sounds like it hurts. But he heaves out a heavy sigh when he slumps back down, his feet propped on the table. He makes no secret of watching you, then, facing you and you can see your reflection in his shades. His mouth crooks and he sits up, stiffens his shoulders.

"We should switch," he says, even and just a little heady from the whiskey. He slides closer and you know from the subtle twitch of his fingers he considers touching you, but instead he just tugs his hat down onto your head. He hooks a finger under your chin and tilts your head left then right, pretending to consider it before he switches your shades with his own in a movement that's sluggish and you can see his eyes are hooded, tired looking before they're hidden again behind your sunglasses. "You can be me. Do all the Bro-things I do and I can be Dave. Keep everything on track."

"This is the ugliest thing," you say and you _do _touch him, hook your fingers over his wrists to stop him from unsnapping his gloves. And he twists them awkwardly, takes hold of your own and pulls your arms, drags you closer and you don't resist.

"Depends on how you wear it," his voice is low and gravelly and his breath smells bad, like congealed blood and whiskey, but it's hot and warm over your face. Your throat runs dry, regardless.

A little voice in your brain considers the merits of apologizing, of turning back now, while your brother is still a monolithic figure of all that's Best in the world. You can't change what you did, not anymore, but you can halt its progress if you wanted. And you _don't_, you don't want to.

So you take your shades off his face and set them carefully on the table, folded up nice and shit because they're one-of-a-kind authentic, and you're careful to keep eye contact as you take off the hat, the sunglasses. He looks to you as though he's very far away, locked up in his head somewhere there's no _you_, maybe, because when you snake your fingers into his hair, press your mouth against his he looks at you like you're somebody he's never met. There's genuine surprise in his eyes before they slip closed and his hands fist into your shirt, push you back and there's no mistaking the anger that's crept into his face.

He grabs you by the shoulders, his grip firm and uncomfortable and beneath the naked resentment burning up his eyes there's something softer that turns over your guts with middle-school awkwardness.

"Knock it off," he says it between clenched teeth, his jaw hard and the angles of his face are tempting.

This is a game you can win. Without dying, without the threat of _other_ people dying because you fucked up.

And all you say is "no," but it's enough because all his resentment burns out in a heavy, rough noise that neither of you will ever acknowledge he made and he slouches forward, vitriol and venom gone from his posture and face and for how defeated he looks he's handsome. You hook your arm around his neck, pull him to you for a kiss but he tilts his head away, presses his hand against the junction of your neck and shoulders.

His voice is thick, quiet when he says, "Not tonight," and he pulls on his hat and shades, which is just as well, because he does not wear vulnerable well, "Gotta think 'bout it."

You don't begrudge him that, choose instead to watch the subtle swing of his hips as he leaves the room with a little less swagger than usual.

With the futon to yourself, you spread out comfortably and you don't dread the day.

* * *

><p>He wakes you up at one by dripping cold water onto your face and déjà vu has you reeling as you sit up, pressure turning over in your skull and you bite into your cheek to keep grounded. His posture tells you he's okay, finally, and the easy curve of his lips has you responding in kind, grinning up at him with an enthusiasm that would have Egbert clinging to your elbow and shaking with poorly contained glee. And it's good, when he bends over the back of the futon to kiss you, until he bites down too hard on your lip and you hiss at the taste of blood.<p>

"_Shit_," you say, touching a finger to your lip where it stings.

He laughs, rich but edged with something sharper, and swings over the futon just as you dart off, away. Your nerves run wildfires up your spine and you make a decision too late, because he's got his arms under yours and hauls you back before you can run. He presses his cheek against the side of your head so that his mouth is at your ear, so close the movements of his lips brush over the shell of it and heat crawls up your neck.

You arch your back, twist your hips uncomfortably but you manage to catch the back of his knee hard and he pulls in a breath, drops you. You scuttle away, vault the futon and slide over the kitchen table.

And he catches your arm, barks a laugh when you slam a fist (half-heartedly and with no real intent to hurt him) into his jaw but turns you loose. For a minute anyway, because then he's got you pinned to the table, his fingers pressing hard into your arms. The edge of the table is digging into the small of your back painfully and then his mouth is wet and insistent over the hollow of your throat and the heat there is all you can focus on. Until he moves a hand under your shirt, ghosts his fingers up, leaving electric trails as he goes and you worm out from beneath before he gets too high.

He grabs for you but you're fast, too, and you've got his arms twisted behind his back before he can think to move. You push him down roughly and he bares his teeth, glares up at you behind the skew of his shades.

But you don't care and he must not either, because when you let go of his arms to push his shirt up he doesn't fight you off. Instead he helps you take it off completely, knocking off his hat and shades and you trail open mouthed kisses along a shoulder, tilt your head into his neck and suck, lap at the skin there. You run a hand flat over his back, dig your nails into the dips and curves of his ribs and spine and he hums in appreciation.

You back off to take off your shirt and leave your sunglasses safely on a chair. The carnation twist of shiny pink and white skin stands bright on his back and your throat constricts and your eyes get hot as you run your fingers light but shaking over the scar.

And he must feel it, because he turns quickly so that he's on his back, facing you and his fingers are tangled in your hair, his thumbs rubbing circles over your temples.

"It's okay," and it's quiet and that softest you've ever heard him speak. He moves a hand over your chest, loops between the marks your honest death and he leans close, says, "I think you got it worse, anyway."

"Compared to bleeding out? Not a chance."

You kiss him so he'll stop making it a contest and his hands settle firm, encouraging on your waist while you slide your tongue into his mouth.

He watches your hands as you work open his jeans, smooth a palm over his erection before curling your fingers around it, pulling the smooth fabric of his boxers tight as you do. You sink to your knees, pulling down his boxers and exposing the length of him and his eyes are hooded and dark as he watches you take the head, shiny with precum, into your mouth. You can hear the breath he sucks in between his teeth and his fingers wind up in your hair.

He's heavy on your tongue, warm and thick and you glide your tongue up the bottom from the base, twist it over the swollen head and back down over the very end, lapping off the precum and savoring the taste. You pull back, wrap your hand around the base of his dick and you stroke in tandem with the bobbing of your head. You're going too slow, being too precise with each flick of your tongue, because he growls and holds your head still, thrusts into your mouth – too hard, too deep because you're struggling not to gag or scrape him with your teeth.

He lets you up when you scratch your nails down his thighs and he presses his mouth to yours, nips at your lips until you open your mouth and he meets your tongue halfway, and he doesn't mind the smear of spit on your chin or the taste of his dick in your mouth. He runs a hand down the curve of your spine, stops at the base of it and you pull away.

"_No_," and your voice is rough, pulled out from the bottom of your guts.

Bro raises his eyebrows, but his hand moves to your hip, his fingers smoothing over the bone. There's an open color of appraisal when he says, "S'in in the right pocket."

And it is, like he had the whole fucking thing planned and, shit, is he smug when you start off on two fingers. You hook your fingers and on the next draw out he catches your wrist, guides you in inserting a third and bends your wrist, twists it.

"Like this, Dave," he purrs.

You stop; set your mouth in a thin line. "You're not gonna tell me how to fuck you."

He laughs, until you bite his neck, sink your teeth into his skin and he hisses, gives in. "Fine."

You press your nose into his hair just above his ear, slip your tongue over the shell. "Good. Turn over."

"Warnin' you, man. Been at this a _long _time."

"Shut up."

He does and pushes you away so he can settle comfortably on his stomach while you roll the condom on. You place your hands over his hips and push inside, and everything is heat suddenly, solid and earnest heat that burns up your skin until he contracts the muscles there and your eyes roll back and close. You hold your breath, focus on the spotlights of color behind your eyelids until the tightness relaxes and you can think to pull halfway out, grind back up and in and the rhythm of his breathing changes, the muscles roped across his back tighten.

You build an easy tempo – you _can't_ go faster, harder because he does this _thing_, rolls his hips to meet you and tightens in a way that pulls you too quick to the edge – and you reach around to take firm hold of his dick. With your thumb at the base of the tip you can feel the blood throbbing and it's encouraging. You stroke him to a beat that's stronger than your thrusting and the noises he makes – low and feral and with your hand splayed on his back you can feel them – echo in your throat, your voice.

He grinds into your hand so that each roll back meets your hips, rides your dick at an angle so that you hit that little pocket of nerves and your breath rattles out of your chest like you're dying. You're too hot, too tightly wound around a need in your guts and you let go of his dick, drive your nails into his hips as you cum, his name torn rough out of your throat.

You slide out, loose and light and shaky, warm and soft all over and Bro turns back over, sits at the edge of the table. His hands settle gently into your hair and you let him guide your head into his lap; slide his dick into your mouth. He sets the pace for it, consistent and heavy but careful enough to let you keep up, keep raising and twisting your tongue against him as he pushes in.

When he finally finishes, the more of it ends up in your throat and you swallow what you can, the rest leaks over your lips as you catch your breath and he thumbs it off, sucking it clean. Your mouth is coated with the flavor (all salt and tang and something slick and bittersweet) and your jaw feels as slack-sure as your knees, but he keeps you steady with an arm over your shoulders. His other hands rests on the side of your face, his thumb smoothing over your eyebrow until his thoughts catch up and he stops, lets you go to pull up his jeans.

You draw on your pants; forego your shirt for the heat in your chest. Bro slides your shades on for you and the world falls dim.

"Y'need to get your shit together," he tells you off-hand, setting bread in the toaster, "For tonight. Can't use mine this time."

Your fingers are weak as you set your hair right, "Your gear is so fucking sweet though."

But he shrugs, folds up a piece of toast when it pops and stuffs it whole into his mouth.

"Motherfucker," and you steal the other piece before he can suck it down his blackhole throat.

* * *

><p>You spend the rest of the day organizing what you need and there's no anxiety when you take the stage later – the club is small and seedy and Bro's hidden in the crowd, anyway. If you fucked up (you won't), he could easily direct you out of the shit. You're surprised he's here at all, but it calms something cold in your bones and you're dropping beats like nobody's heard before, cut with the finest last-generation bullshit gear you're forced to use until you can get the cash necessary for the latest tech.<p>

It's a disembodied feeling when you really get into it, your thought process stops and the crowd surges louder, sweeter when you switch over. The night leaves you with that acrid sweat and booze smell but your nerves buzz pleasantly whenever somebody asks for you name.

He lest you ride the high for an hour before steering you to the car, careful to look appropriately apathetic even as he keeps his hand on your arm. You feel good, really just _good_, but you're bone tired and the stairs aren't worth the effort. The elevator is slow and creepy as hell, the wallpaper peeling by the dirty red floor, but Bro holds your bags like a fine fucking gentleman and he doesn't complain when you lean on him. He even holds the door to the apartment open for you, sets your gear down by the door to your room.

The air is still out in there – office is closed and you're both pretty useless – so you crash on the futon, your nose pressed into the fabric (and it smells like stale piss and beer and something like apple juice but you don't care). He's careful about touching you, but he does, rubs a hand over your back and shoulder and neck before disappearing to his room. The air closes in cold around you and the only sound is your breathing, rattling in and out of your mouth.

You don't think you'll ever say outright that you love your brother – you're a Strider, for fuck's sake – and you're damn sure he'd sooner burn his record collection and bury his smuppets than say it to _you_, but when you stumble half-awake into his room he doesn't kick you out. Instead, he shifts on the bed to make room and lets you slip under the covers, press close so all you can taste on the air is his skin. He stays perfectly still until you've settled comfortably against him, presses his nose into your hair and hooks an arm over your waist, rubs slow circles to soothe you. And you think – lazily and slow and fogged by a beat you'll hear in your sleep – that for all these things, neither of you need to.

His breath washes warm and sweet despite the liquor over your face and you hum, curl your fingers into the sheets beyond his shoulders and breathe deep.


End file.
